


The Price of Freedom

by letterfromtrenwith



Series: The Ross Poldark Mysteries [2]
Category: Poldark (TV 2015), Poldark - All Media Types
Genre: Crime AU, Enjoy another of my pairings I completely made up, F/M, Other, mystery au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-06
Updated: 2019-07-19
Packaged: 2020-06-23 13:39:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 22,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19702489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/letterfromtrenwith/pseuds/letterfromtrenwith
Summary: When Hugh Armitage, Naval hero and nephew of the aristocratic Lord Falmouth, disappears mysteriously while out riding, it first appears to be a tragic accident. However, a ransom note is delivered and magistrates Francis Poldark and George Warleggan, along with constable Captain Ross Poldark, open an investigation.It soon becomes clear that this is no ordinary kidnap, executed almost invisibly by skilled criminals - but why should anyone wish to target this gentle young man? And what do Hugh’s uncle, his sweetheart Morwenna Cynoweth, and the respected Dr Dwight Enys know about the case?





	1. Prologue

It was barely a pinprick of sickly yellow light at the other end of the murk of the alley, but it was the only sign of life Silas had seen in this filthy labyrinth. He was far from unused to grimy bolt-holes and dirty, narrow streets, but something about this place made him uneasy. Shaking himself, he crept forward, hand on the hilt of his dagger – he spent his time surrounded by cut-purses, smugglers and worse, now wasn’t the time to get squeamish, especially when there was a pretty penny to be made. That’s what he’d been promised anyhow.

Other than the lantern flickering behind a tiny, grimy window, there was no sign that the building was even occupied, let alone that it was a drinking establishment. He’d never been here before, didn’t know it existed as a matter of fact, and he flattered himself that he was very familiar with the…unofficial establishments of Cornwall.

The inside of the place was barely less gloomy than without, a couple of cheap candles flickering behind the bar and in sconces on the walls. Without prompting, the barman thudded a tankard of something passing for ale on the dirty wooden bar, and he handed over a couple of coins. In a shadowy corner, he saw the man he was coming to meet.

“F – “

“Shhh, no names.” His compatriot hissed, and he nodded. It made sense.

“Well, what is it?” If it wasn’t for how long Silas had known the other man, he would never have agreed to this. Not that he knew exactly what ‘this’ was – he’d been told if he came here tonight he could earn a generous sum, but nothing more.

“How do I know he can be trusted?” He started at the voice emerging from the corner; another man sat there, almost entirely hidden until he sat forward slightly, hovering just at the edge of the poor lighting. He wore a scarf just a touch too heavy for the season, clearly another layer of concealment beyond his lurking in the shadows. His voice was low, guttural, but he was disguising an educated tone.

“I vouch for him.” There was a brief silence while the third man considered.

“Very well. But know this, my employer is a very powerful man. If either of you betray us, you will suffer the consequences. Do you understand?” Silas did not like the sound of that, and began to wonder if he’d got himself into something more dangerous that he’d like. It was too late to back out now, though, and he couldn’t help but remember the promised payout. So, along with his compatriot, he said he understood. “You must do exactly as I say, and once we have extracted the money, you will receive your cut.”

“How much?” Silas’ friend demanded, and Silas winced.

“You’ll get nothing if you don’t do as you’re told.” The shadowed man answered gruffly. “Now listen carefully – “


	2. Chapter 1

“Good morning, Miss Chynoweth.” It took Morwenna a moment to recognise the young man as Master Chalmers, the haberdasher’s apprentice.

“Good morning, Master Chalmers. A pleasant day.”

“Yes, Miss.” He glanced away shyly and Morwenna smiled to herself. Considering he was training for a profession which chiefly served women, the young man was quite abashed by the opposite sex. She had almost been surprised at his boldness in addressing her, albeit quite properly. Then again, she was alone today, and not in the company of Elizabeth, whose presence often reduced young men to stuttering fools.

“Well, I shall not keep you from your business, Master Chalmers. Good day to you.”

“And to you, Miss.” He touched his hat and then hurried away busily, clutching his packages to his chest. Morwenna clucked her tongue and her horse, Della, continued at a leisurely stroll. She was returning from a pleasant morning’s ride out; the spring sunshine created some beautiful views for her sketches, and she’d found some wonderful daffodils growing wild near the woods. With a gentle tug on the reins, she steered Della down an alleyway which would eventually bring them to the rear yard of the Warleggan townhouse.

It was shame that the house lacked a garden, but she was very much enjoying her stay there otherwise. Cardew was beautiful, but she had spent most of her life in the country and, as much as she still loved the outdoors, town life was quite diverting. Perhaps living here permanently would become oppressive, but George had promised they would return to the country house by July, for the children if nothing else.

A stable boy ran out to meet her as she rode into the yard, and she thanked him with a smile as he offered her a hand to get down. She retrieved her books and pencils from the saddle bag and pulled at the ribbon of her hat as she entered the house, a housemaid, Polly, greeting her with quick bob.

Sarah, another maid, took her hat and jacket, as well as the flowers, which she promised to put into water.

“Did you get some nice sketches, Miss Morwenna?”

“I did, Sarah, thank you. Is everyone at home?”

“Mr Warleggan is still at the Bank.” That was no surprise. “But Mistress is at home. She’s in the parlour. Shall I fetch you some tea?”

“Thank you, Sarah.”

“Ah, Morwenna, there you are, my dear.” Elizabeth looked up from her embroidery with a warm smile. “How was your ride?”

“Lovely. The spring flowers are beautiful and the sea was so calm today, like a sheet of silver.”

“How delightful! Shall we see a painting of it?”

“Perhaps. I have made a sketch.” She paused, sitting back on the sofa. “I had actually thought that Hugh might like it. He is fond of walks by the sea.”

“Oh, I am sure he will be pleased!” Elizabeth looked delighted and Morwenna smiled. It had been Elizabeth – and George – who had introduced Morwenna to Hugh, and as much as they tried to be delicate about it, she knew they had high hopes for the connection.

It was hardly unreasonable of them – Hugh Armitage was an educated, well-mannered young man from an excellent family. Excellent in name, at least – his uncle, Lord Falmouth, was not a pleasant man, completely different to his nephew, and not much thought of outside of his title, to which Hugh was the only heir. George certainly had a low opinion of him, and while Elizabeth was not one to speak ill of anyone, Morwenna knew that even her cousin’s kind heart was not inclined towards the man.

Although the Chynoweths were also an ancient family – much more so than the Lords Falmouth – Morwenna’s marriage prospects had perhaps not been the best. The family fortunes had gradually dwindled over the years, and the last two heirs – cousins Richard and Jonathan Chynoweth – had rather put the final nail into them by producing only daughters: Richard, Morwenna and her three sisters, and Jonathan, Elizabeth.

“They must all marry well,” Morwenna recalled Elizabeth’s mother, Joan, saying to her own mother. “It is imperative.”

Elizabeth had certainly done so. The Warleggans might have been blacksmiths two generations past, but they had become the richest family in the district. Morwenna had been barely ten years old at the time, but she well-remembered the avaricious look in her mother’s eye at the wedding. She had managed to contain herself for a few years before attempting to leverage their connection to secure marriage settlements for her daughters. Knowing George as she did now, Morwenna was quite surprised that he had not refused such a mercenary request on principle; perhaps Elizabeth had prevailed upon him.

Morwenna was the only one of her sisters old enough to consider matrimony as of yet, but that had not kept away the fortune hunters, attracted by the scent of George’s money. Of course, if they thought that he was going to hand over a penny to their grasping likes, then they were fools indeed. Hugh had no interest in her fortune, however, nor even her name. Aside from Elizabeth and George, he was one of the few people who actually spoke to her as an equal, not purely as a connection to be cultivated, whether on a romantic or social level.

Coming to live with Elizabeth and George, ostensibly as a companion to Elizabeth and a help with the children, had been remarkably freeing. Marriage seemed to be her mother’s only thought for some time, and she had certainly set her eyes on much lesser men than Hugh.

“Perhaps he will call upon you soon?” Elizabeth had returned to her sewing, but her tone was not entirely casual.

“Perhaps he will.” Morwenna smiled again. Before her cousin could say anymore, the parlour door opened and a small, unruly mob was admitted, along with Sarah and the tea tray.

“Wenna!”

“Oof!” She groaned as three surprisingly heavy little creatures attempted to clamber onto her lap at the same time. With some pushing and shoving, one finally emerged victorious. Ursula was six, and the oldest of George and Elizabeth’s three daughters. She looked up at Morwenna with blue eyes exactly like her father’s.

“Where have you been, Wenna?” Seeing Morwenna so besieged, Sarah thought better of attempting to hand her a teacup and simply left it on the table before withdrawing with a look of amusement.

“Out riding, and drawing.”

“Can I see? I want to see!”

“See! Please!” Her younger sisters, twins Clare and Susannah, chorused in agreement. Forced off her lap, they had instead settled on either side of her. 

“Girls! Poor Morwenna has barely sat down! Will you never give her any peace?” Elizabeth sighed in fond exasperation as Morwenna shook her head. She loved the children the very much, even if they were rather lively. The girls especially had become particularly attached to her, often trailing in her wake wherever she went, clustering around her on the floor as she painted, and begging her to read to them from her books. Elizabeth called them her ‘little ducklings’.

“All right, but I think you might prefer to see these…” She pulled out the twist of paper tucked into her sketchbook, laughing at the excited noises the girls made when they realised what she held. On the way home, she had stepped into the confectioners and bought a penn’orth of comfits, which she now distributed into little eager hands.

“What do you say?” Elizabeth prompted.

“Thank you!” It was delivered around mouthfuls of sweets, but it would have to do.

“What about you Valentine?” Morwenna extended the paper towards him. At nine, the girls elder brother considered himself very grown up – certainly far too grown up to be clambering on his cousin’s knee. Not too grown up for sweets, however, considering how quickly he hopped down from where he had perched on the sofa next to his mama.

“Thank you, Morwenna.” He sketched a quite proper little bow before sitting down again and Morwenna suppressed a laugh. It would not do for him to think she mocked him, although that was not her intention at all. She saw Elizabeth concealing similar amusement behind her sewing.

There was some noise out in the entrance hall, and the door opened once more.

“Papa!” Morwenna’s companions immediately left her, swarming across the carpet to fling themselves at George. Clare got there first and was swept into his arms, wrapping her own smaller ones around his neck. Elizabeth watched them affectionately before turning back to Morwenna.

“There, my dear, you see what it has been for me these past years? Quite forgotten as soon as Papa appears!”

“Good afternoon, my dears.” Holding Clare tightly, George bent to kiss Elizabeth, who in turn reached up to stroke his arm. Morwenna watched them with a smile – her cousins were certainly a great endorsement for matrimony, but then again, perhaps not everyone should expect such contentment.

George managed to get across the room without tripping over the other two girls and took a seat next to Morwenna. Ursula, deprived of her Papa, settled for climbing back onto Morwenna’s lap, leaving poor little Susannah looking bereft, until she elected to clamber up next to her brother instead. He forgot his gentlemanly formality and put his arm around her.

“How is Nicholas, my dear?”

“Oh, yes, Elizabeth, I meant to ask.” George and Elizabeth’s youngest child, Nicholas, not quite a year old, had been unwell this last day or so, crying at all hours, Elizabeth struggling to soothe him.

“Much better. Just a slight stomach upset, as we thought. He is sleeping now.”

“I am glad to hear it.” George stroked Clare’s soft curls gently as she cuddled into him. Elizabeth had once told Morwenna that as happy as her daughters’ loving relationship with George made her, it was also a little bittersweet, as it reminded her of her own long gone father. Morwenna knew exactly what she meant, the way the girls clustered around George was much the same way she and her sisters had done with their father, who had also passed from this world into the next.

“Have you had a productive morning, Morwenna, my dear?”

“Yes, George, thank you.”

“She has made sketch for Hugh.” Elizabeth raised her eyebrows, and George smiled.

“Oh, indeed?” Morwenna ignored their teasing. George suddenly looked at her quite seriously. “Anything else?”

“Perhaps.” She knew what he meant, but such things could not be mentioned directly in front of the children. They were entirely too perceptive. “But we can discuss that at dinner.” 

“It will be just the two of you this evening, I am afraid. I have some business I must attend to with my Uncle.” Morwenna did her best not to make a face, although she saw Elizabeth give George a sympathetic look. George’s Uncle Cary was another reason why Morwenna was enjoying staying at the townhouse. She had become used to the old man eventually, but his dour presence could be somewhat draining. He did not approve of George’s marriage to Elizabeth, and although he was not openly rude to his niece-in-law, he evidently had never gone out of his way to accept her into his family, even after all these years. The children avoided him, and he them, frowning whenever they made any noise or played their games in the parlour.

“Do you intend to fill this house with bloody Chynoweth women?” Morwenna had overheard him saying to George the day she arrived at Cardew. In the few months she’d lived there before they came into Truro, she’d barely exchanged a word with him. She couldn’t imagine what it must have been like for George growing up with only Cary for company.

“Will you be back tonight, or will you stay at Cardew?” Elizabeth asked.

“We shall have to see.”

After a swift knock, Sarah re-appeared, holding a letter.

“For you, Sir. From the magistrates’ court. Urgent, the young man says.” George managed to unfold the letter while balancing Clare on his lap. Morwenna saw his face darken as he read it. Considering its origin, it was unlikely to be good news.

“Sarah, will you take the children upstairs, please? Go on, off you go.” Clearly sensing the seriousness in their father’s tone, the children went without protest, trailing after Sarah obediently, holding hands in a little chain.

“George? What has happened?” Elizabeth frowned in concern.

“Morwenna, my dear, when did you last see Hugh?” Morwenna blinked in surprise. She had not been expecting that, and had to think for a moment.

“Last Thursday. I met him in Henderson’s and we walked a while. But he sent me a note on Sunday, with a book. Why?”

“It seems he has gone missing.”


	3. Chapter 2

Clouds were gathering as Ross turned into the long driveway toward Garrow Hall, Blackie’s hooves crunching on the gravel. Outside the house, men on horseback and foot milled around, some carrying lanterns – unlit as yet, but they would be needed when darkness fell. It seemed he was somewhat late in arriving; Francis had naturally sent his note to Nampara, but Ross had been out on the estate, helping to mend the roof on one of the cottages.

As he came to them, the Hall’s ornate front door swung open and Francis and George stepped out, George pulling on riding gloves. Francis hailed him and Ross dismounted.

“Lt. Armitage is missing?” He didn’t bother with pre-amble. Neither of the other men looked in the mood for idle chat, and if the situation were as Ross understood it, there was no time to waste.

“Yes. He has not been seen for several hours.”

“And there is no likely explanation for his absence?”

“None.” George put in. “He was expected back some time ago, and gave no notice that he was to go elsewhere.”

“Where had he been?”

“With me.” Ross turned to find Dwight Enys approaching from amongst the gathered men. He, too, was dressed for the search. “With us, I should say, at Killewarren. He came to us on Sunday, and stayed until this morning, setting out just after breakfast. It was entirely my understanding that he intended to return here immediately, as he was expected for tea with some guests of his Lordship.”

“And he never arrived.” Ross finished.

“No, but I did not realise anything was wrong until a footman came to fetch him. Lord Falmouth had sent him on the assumption that Hugh had forgotten.”

“So far as we can tell, nobody has seen him for close to nine hours.” Francis added, grimly. An unexplained absence of that length of time was unlikely to bode well, as every man here knew, but did not wish to voice.

“How are we to search?” Ross looked at the men assembled. Most of those on foot looked like servants or labourers, while he recognised some of the mounted men as his fellow constables, including William Henshaw and Ted Carkeek.

“You and I will lead the largest party, and we will retrace the route from here to Killewarren. Henshaw and Dwight will take a second party towards the cliffs, George and Ted a third through the woods inland. Hugh is unlikely to have gone further afield even in this time. If either we or George’s party finds him injured, we’ll send a runner for Dwight.” Francis spoke with a confident authority, and Ross was struck –as he often was – by what an impressive man his cousin had become. Ross had been back in Cornwall for almost a year now, but still could not get used to this change. His near-decade away had fixed Francis in his mind as that nervy, awkward nineteen year old he had been when Ross departed – a boy no one would ever have expected to excel at anything, let alone as Chief Magistrate, a role which he performed impeccably.

“There is one more thing.” Dwight began before hesitating a moment, as if he were trying to decide something. “Normally, I would never speak of such things, but in the circumstances …The fact of it is, Hugh is not well, he has not been for some time. He suffers from…attacks. Headaches, dizziness, blurred vision. If one befell him on his journey home…”

“Forgive me, doctor, but surely he should not be riding alone in such a condition?” George had appeared unmoved by Dwight’s revelation, and Ross felt a slight prickle of annoyance at his abrupt question. Dwight did not seem to mind, however, and simply nodded.

“I have advised him of such, but he was quite insistent. He has no desire to be rendered an invalid.”

“Lt Armitage is a friend of yours?” Ross could not help his curiosity. The doctor had been a friend of Ross’ since their time in Virginia, but Ross had been tragically neglectful of their friendship during his years in London. He had endeavoured to make some amends since his return to Cornwall, but demands of the constabulary, and his estate, not to mention his natural aversion to society, had not helped. His general seclusion meant he had only officially met Lt. Armitage once – a handsome young man certainly, he seemed to Ross almost too delicate for the military, but had apparently served with distinction. Ross could certainly see how he might have got along well with Dwight, however. 

“Yes, we were in France together.” The doctor did not seem inclined to elaborate further, and Francis broke the mildly awkward silence which followed by calling the search party to order, the men dividing into well-organised groups. As Ross returned to Blackie, he saw George irritably wave away a stable boy and mount with ease before wheeling his horse neatly around, Ted Carkeek following with a similar but less elegant movement. Ten or so men set off in their wake. In the other direction, Dwight and Henshaw led a similarly sized group towards the coast. In a way, they had the worst of it – there were any number of terrible fates which could have befallen the young lieutenant had he ended up too close to the cliffs, particularly if he were in the grip of one of the attacks Dwight had described.

He nudged Blackie into a trot to catch up with Francis, who was leaning down from his horse to talk to two young men, miners or labourers by their dress. Dark-haired, they looked like brothers – Ross did not know them but they were somehow familiar. At Ross’ approach, they hurried away to join the other men walking ahead.

“Do you know those young men?” Francis gave him an odd glance as they set off.

“Drake and Sam Carne – they’re Demelza’s brothers.” Demelza Carne was a young woman from Illugan, a tenant Ross had acquired while he was still an absentee landlord, a herbalist by her modest trade, and, so far as Ross knew, his cousin’s mistress. Francis was reluctant to discuss his connection with Demelza, for perhaps obvious reasons, but it was certainly an intimate one. Why Francis did not just marry the girl, Ross did not know. It would cause a minor scandal, of course, but Francis was influential enough to weather it. 

“Do you know Lt. Armitage?” Ross knew Francis would appreciate the change of subject, and Ross thought he may as well keep at the task at hand.

“Yes, some, although I had not seen him for years before he returned from France with Dwight. He was up at Oxford before he joined the Navy. Quite a clever young man – artistic, I believe…I did not know about his illness. Something to do with the prison, perhaps.”

“Prison? He has been imprisoned?” Ross could not square his brief impression of Hugh Armitage with the notion of criminality, as much as his years as a man of the law had taught him that almost anyone was capable. Francis frowned at him.

“Dwight has not told you?…Then I do not know if…” He sighed. “But, perhaps, under the circumstances…”

“What?”

“Dwight and Hugh were prisoners of war together. In France. Dwight does not like to speak about it, but I understand from Caroline that it affected them both deeply.” Ross was taken aback. Dwight had never made any mention of such a thing in the times they had spoken, nor in his letters to Ross while Ross was in London. He knew that Dwight had spent some time in the Navy, during which time he had married his wife, Caroline, but nothing about captivity under the French.

“But they were released?”

“Escaped. You recall a group of royalists got up a landing party, perhaps six months before you returned here? They were beaten back, as you know, but they managed to storm the prison holding Dwight and Hugh, and they were able to slip away in the chaos, along with a few others. Some of the retreating royalists brought them back here.” Ross could not believe it. Such a terrible ordeal and Dwight had kept it to himself. Perhaps he had not made such progress in re-connecting with his old friend as he thought.

“Hugh does not talk of it, either. Perhaps George might know a little more.”

“George?” That surprised him. He could well imagine the gentle Hugh getting along with Dwight, but the much more severe George was an unlikely friend for the young man.

“Well, not so much George. You know Elizabeth’s cousin, Morwenna, lives with them now? At Cardew?” Elizabeth Warleggan – Chynoweth as was – was George’s wife. She had once been Ross’ fiancée, at least in Ross’ mind. He’d left for his service in the Americas believing that they would be married upon his return. However, after being told that he was dead, she had married George instead. Learning this had sent Ross into a years-long swirl of resentment and bitterness, until he’d finally realised that it was never truly meant to be between him and Elizabeth. They had both been too young, too romantic, caught up in a fanciful whirlwind.

“Yes.” He’d heard of it. Ross didn’t know the girl at all – Elizabeth’s younger cousins had been just children when he first left Cornwall. They’d never been introduced; he’d caught a glimpse of her at one of the few functions he’d attended recently, no more than an impression of dark hair and a hint of a smile at something George had said to her. 

“Well, she’s a particular friend of Hugh’s. There’s even talk of a possible marriage.”

“Can’t see George being keen on a family connection to Lord Falmouth.” As much as he and George still weren’t exactly on friendly terms, one thing they definitely agreed on was a dislike of Lord Falmouth. Then again, most people agreed on that.

“Who would be? But Hugh’s a good man, and if Morwenna wishes it, George and Elizabeth wouldn’t stand in her way. They’re very fond of her.”

As they rode, Ross swept his gaze from side, searching for any sign of their missing man, and knew Francis would be doing the same. The men on foot peered into bushes and behind walls, scouring the ground for a piece of torn clothing or a thrown horseshoe – any hint of what might have befallen young Hugh.

However, as night began to fall, and the rain finally started to come down, they came into view of Killewarren, and the men’s morale visibly fell. It would not normally take so long to reach the house from Garrow Hall, but they had walked slowly, for fear of missing anything. They had found nothing. A brief moment of excitement when Sam Carne had exclaimed at a hedgerow, but it was only that he had narrowly avoided stepping into a rabbit trap.

Caroline Enys came out to meet them – disappointment clear on her lovely face.

“You have not found him?”

“No, Caroline.” Before Francis could continue, there was a clatter of hooves from another direction, and George rode into view, a grim expression on his face. Several men followed him, one leading a horse.

“Caroline, is this the horse Hugh rode when he left you?” It was a pretty beast, its white shaggy coat spattered with mud. George had asked the question but, like Ross, he had clearly already guessed the answer. Caroline put her hand to her chest, her mouth turning downwards in dismay.

“Yes, yes it is.” 

~

“I have asked the men to start checking the beaches.” Francis frowned down at his papers; the implications of his words did not need to be spelled out.

“It may be to no avail.” Ross shook his head. If Hugh indeed had been lost to the sea, it was entirely possible he would never be seen again. Although George’s men had found his horse in the woods, there was no other trace of him at all, even after almost three days’ searching. It seemed natural to conclude, therefore, that he had gone over the cliffs somehow, whether by accident or design.

“But what could have caused him to fall? If we are correct in assuming that he has?”

“Perhaps one of these attacks Dr Enys described? I understand they cause some measure of disorientation. He may have dismounted to recover and wandered too close to the edge.” George frowned at his probable but unsatisfactory explanation. Ross knew what he probably thought – it was such a deeply prosaic end. A pathetic, abrupt way to die.

“Could it have been deliberate? More than one military man has…” Francis did not finish but it was clear what he meant. Ross had seen it himself, men who struggled with their memories of warfare, with returning to their ‘ordinary’ lives.

“I cannot imagine it of him.” Ross might have ordinarily argued with George; he had not been a soldier, he could not understand, but Ross was also conscious that, of the three of them, George knew – had known? – Hugh best. Dwight’s description of Hugh’s visit to Killewarren rather concurred with this sentiment. Hugh had apparently been in quite good spirits, a new remedy Dwight had prescribed seemed to be helping his illness somewhat.

“Dwight said he sent off a small package on the Sunday. I wonder what that could have been?”

“It was a book. For Morwenna. It is the last she heard from him.”

“How is she? This must be dreadfully upsetting for her.” Francis sat back in his chair, eyebrows knitted in a sympathetic frown. They were in the magistrates’ court, after the end of a day’s session. George and Francis had removed their wigs, and in their black robes, Ross thought they rather looked like a pair of crows, George especially.

“She is trying to be brave. Admirably so.”

All three men turned as Henshaw entered, striding in with purpose. He held a folded letter in his hand.

“Sir, you must read this. It was left at Garrow Hall, no one saw who delivered it.” He handed the paper to Francis, who read it quickly, his face darkening. After a moment, he began to read aloud:

“ _My dear Uncle_

_I must first tell you that I am physically well. However, I will not remain so if you do not do as you are asked. The gentlemen I am with demand that you pay them some £10,000, to be left by the mile marker on the crossroads between Sawle and Illuggan by midnight Friday next. When this sum is received, I shall be returned to the safety of my home. If it is not…well, I am sure you can imagine._

_Your faithful nephew,_

_Hugh”_


	4. Chapter 3

Francis fought a yawn as he rode along the cliff path, although the fresh sea breeze helped to keep him awake. The last few days had exhausted him, not from activity but the lack of it. Since the delivery of Hugh’s ransom note, they had not been able to make so much as an inch of progress in identifying those responsible for his kidnap. Nobody had seen the delivery of the letter, not hide nor hair. Not so much as a scrap of information had been volunteered or unearthed, every one of his constables’ informants coming up empty-handed. It was as if spirits had vanished Hugh into thin air.

He told himself he was coming here in a professional capacity, to speak to one more informant, but he was just fooling himself. Truly, he was coming here for comfort, to distract himself from his frustration. Dismounting, he tied Bess up in the seaside cottage’s lean-to stable, next to its owner’s piebald pony, which whickered softly. A lamp glowed in the window and the door opened before he could knock, Demelza smiling tenderly at him.

“Francis.” His name on her lips was the most comforting thing he’d heard in days.

Demelza insisted they not speak about his work until after dinner – a hearty stew of rabbit and wild mushrooms – nor until after they were comfortably seated by a crackling fire. However, she was sadly unable to offer him anything more than what he had already.

“You’ve truly heard nothing at all?” Demelza shook her head sadly.

“No, not s’much as a whisper. I s’pose it’s not exactly sort o’ thing people would boast about.”

“You know as well as I do how people struggle to keep their business to themselves.” A few years ago, Demelza had come to Francis while he was on the hunt for a group of ruffians accosting lone travellers at night. A young curate had been badly beaten, and a gentleman was stabbed – thankfully not fatally – objecting to the rough handling of his wife. An acquaintance of Demelza’s had told her that her husband boasted of his involvement in the crimes while drunk, and Demelza had chosen to break this young woman’s confidence considering the girl had been heavily bruised herself. In the end, Henshaw found several of the stolen items hidden inside the chimney piece in the man’s cottage, and he’d given up his compatriots in an attempt to save his miserable skin. In a way he had, although a journey to Botany Bay was not much better than a quick trip to the end of a rope, according to some reports.

“Indeed I do. But I reckon ye’d ‘ave t’be uncommon clever t’do somethin’ like this. Too clever t’ run yer mouth, mayhap.” She had something there, but that was certainly not unusual. From their first meeting, Francis had been impressed with her quick, clever mind. It made her not only very good at her healing works, but an invaluable informant. She respected the privacy of those who sought her services, but they also knew they could speak to her if they had information but did not feel able to go to the authorities themselves.

“That is unfortunately true, but it makes my task all the harder.”

“D’ye think these men might hurt Lt. Armitage?”

“I honestly do not know.” He sighed. “I sincerely hope not. Not if the ransom is paid.”

“Can it be? Lord Falmouth’s losing his money, they say.”

“I believe so, although he will not admit it.” It was an open secret that Falmouth’s coffers were rapidly dwindling, decades of lavish spending and mismanagement of the ancestral estates finally catching up to him. The ransom asked was an astonishing sum. Even for a wealthier man than Falmouth, it was certainly difficult to come up with in little over a week. Francis could not do it; it had taken him several years to get the Poldark family fortunes back on an even keel, and he was certainly pleased with his progress, but extracting £10,000 at short notice would be virtually impossible.

“Are there not richer men?” As usual, Demelza had seemed to intuit his thoughts. “George Warleggan, say?”

Again, Francis had thought along similar lines himself. Surely any kidnapper worth their salt would target the richest man in the district – a man who had several children to boot. Then again, Francis would certainly not like to get between George and any man foolish enough to touch so much as a hair on the head of anyone he loved. Perhaps they considered Falmouth an easier mark. Or maybe it was personal, some manner of revenge against Falmouth. He certainly had his enemies, but were any of them capable of this?

Francis passed a tired hand over his brow, and Demelza slipped out of her own chair, coming to kneel next to his, her hands resting on his lap.

“Whatever ‘as ‘appened, ye can do naught about it if ye work yerself to exhaustion.” The firelight set her raid hair aflame and burnished her pale skin. He stroked her cheek with the backs of his fingers and she closed her eyes, leaning slightly into the touch. At first, their relationship had been purely professional, but he’d been unable to deny his attraction to her, and after some time she’d made it plain that his feelings were not unreturned. It was on a night much like this that they’d finally succumbed to temptation. Shifting, Demelza sat up, leaning forward to press her lips to his. “Let me ‘elp you relax.” 

~

There was just a faint glimmer of dawn when he awoke. Demelza’s bed was certainly simpler than the grand four-poster in Trenwith’s master bedroom, but to him it was far more comfortable. Since his old Aunt Agatha’s death last autumn, he’d been living in his childhood home entirely alone for the first time in life, and the place had become larger and colder than ever. By contrast, Demelza’s seaside cottage seemed the most welcoming place he could imagine. That was less to do with the house than the woman herself, however.

It was only when he heard her humming floating up into the loft space which served as her bedroom that he realised she was no longer lying beside him. He heard the splash of liquid and the chink of earthenware; after a few moments, she appeared at the top of the ladder from the main room, steadying herself with one hand, the handles of two steaming cups clutched in the other.

“Did I wake ye?”

“No. I should leave soon anyhow.” His staff, what few he required for himself now, would say naught about him spending the night away, but it would not do to be seen leaving Demelza’s cottage in the morning. Somehow, they had managed to be discreet thus far, but there was always the chance of the wrong person seeing or hearing something they shouldn’t…

Demelza curled up next to him on the bed as he sat up and took the proffered tea with a smile. Although he had gifted her leaf tea on more than one occasion, he knew she kept it primarily for his visits, preferring her own nettle brew the rest of the time. He watched her as she blew on the cup, then took a small sip, savouring it. She wore a well-worn linen shirt which had once belonged to him – he had given her some of his old clothes to distribute as she saw fit, but she had kept that for herself – and a soft, knitted shawl he knew she had made herself. Her hair was loose, curling over her shoulders and down her back.

_Why don’t you just marry her?_ The question Ross had asked him several times over in recent months came back to him, as it had been doing more often lately. It was not that Francis didn’t want to marry her, far from it, but it was not quite so simple as Ross seemed to think. Considering his position as the head of one of the most prominent families in the district, there was already gossip abound as to why Francis was not yet married, why he had not provided an heir for Trenwith. There were also plenty of mothers of unmarried daughters who were quite keen to remedy the situation, but as charming as most of these young ladies were, Francis could not imagine marrying any of them. When he thought of a wife, of the love and companionship of marriage, only Demelza came to his mind.

To marry a village woman, the daughter of a miner, would cause no little scandal. Francis could deal with that, but it was Demelza who would feel the worst of it. The subtle slights and disapproving looks, the stares and whispers and everything else. If he married her, he’d be throwing her to the wolves. Aside from that, the mistress of Trenwith could hardly go around dispensing folk remedies to the poor. Demelza would not want to give that up, and she provided a great service to the people of the district. Aside from that, if she was no longer at her work, she could no longer gather information for him. But, what a selfish thought! To continue to risk her reputation while prevaricating over his feelings for her for such a mercenary reason was beneath him.

He left a short while later, promising himself as he always did that he would make proper decision about their relationship when the matter of Hugh was dealt with. Just as he’d promised he would decide after they’d caught that band of smugglers two months back, and after he’d dealt with the men who attempted to hold up a mail coach just after Christmas, and….

By the time he met Ross outside the rear yard of the Warleggan townhouse, he’d gone through every word of the same self-recrimination that had been turning itself over in his head for he didn’t know how long. He’d sent Ross the note asking to meet last night. Perhaps George had been able to turn up something which they had not. He had his own resources.

Aside from his duties as Francis’ fellow magistrate, George was a clandestine agent of the Admiralty – their chief agent in the district as a matter of fact. He had been for years without Francis’ knowledge, until it had come to light during an investigation into the brutal murders of three French immigrants last year. He had to admit that his oldest friend keeping such a secret from him had hurt at first, but he understood why George had felt the need to do so. Going around telling everyone you know that you’re a spy wasn’t really the best way the go about things, after all.

“Do you really think George will have been able to come up with something else?” Ross handed his hat off a smiling young housemaid, who took Francis’ as well.

“We can only hope.” Francis glanced up at the sound of laughter floating down the stairs. George and Elizabeth’s eldest boy, Valentine, ran across the landing, his younger sisters in tow. One of the little twin girls – despite being their godfather, Francis had rather shamefully never managed to properly tell them apart – paused at the top of the stairs, giving them both a shy wave before hurrying off in pursuit of her siblings. He saw Ross’ gaze linger on the departing children – he supposed it had to be odd, seeing the children of the woman he had almost married. 

Elizabeth herself greeted them as they were shown into the parlour, Morwenna alongside her. While Elizabeth looked serious, her cousin was a little pale, Francis noted. If the rumours of an attachment between herself and Hugh were indeed true then he could only imagine how she must be feeling.

“Ah, Francis, Ross. Morwenna, I don’t believe you and Ross have been properly introduced. Captain Ross Poldark, my cousin, Morwenna Chynoweth.” Morwenna gave a small smile and a polite curtsey. Ross said nothing in return, which was extraordinarily rude even for him. Francis nudged him and caught a glimpse of his face – Ross was staring at Morwenna as if dumbstruck. What on Earth was the matter with him? Just when Francis thought he might have to actually shake him, Ross seemed to recover himself.

“Forgive me, Miss Chynoweth. Pleased to make your acquaintance. I must say, your resemblance to your cousin is very strong.” Ah, of course. Francis had been struck by the same thing himself when he had first met Morwenna. Or rather, first met her as a young woman, rather than the little girl he had once or twice seen running with her sisters about the gardens of Cusgarne, the Chynoweth family seat. Although they were only cousins – and not even first cousins, at that – the familial link between Elizabeth and Morwenna was quite strikingly obvious, particularly with them standing right next to one another. Save a few slight differences – Elizabeth was a shade taller, Morwenna’s face a touch thinner – the young Miss Chynoweth looked almost exactly as Elizabeth had at that age. Which was, of course, the age at which Ross had first known and fallen in love with her; Morwenna’s appearance was perhaps a reminder of things Ross would rather forget.

“Yes, people do sometimes say.” Morwenna and Elizabeth exchanged a smile as a maid entered with tea, and all four sat. Francis was about to ask if George would be joining them when the man himself appeared, closing the door with an efficient snap. The maid had sensibly provided a fifth cup and George seated himself between the women. Although his friend was generally considered inscrutable – a useful trait in all of George’s many occupations – Francis flattered himself that he had known George long enough to be able to read him a little better than most. He could tell, therefore, that George had not found anything of use to their investigation. His annoyance at his lack of success was clear. Francis was impatient to discuss the case further – in the faint hope that thrashing it all out between them yet again might provide some unexpected clue – but knew he would have to force himself to be patient until the polite social ritual of tea was finished with. They could not speak in front of Morwenna; no doubt Elizabeth would find some excuse to send her out. He could tell that Ross was similarly keen to get to the point by the way he was jiggling his leg.

“I am afraid we have no further success than the constables,” George began, and Francis exchanged a glance with Ross. “Even our intelligencers who move amongst the lowest levels of society have heard not a word. Not about the kidnap of Hugh Armitage, at any rate.”

“Er – “ Francis sent a look at Morwenna, who sipped her tea quite calmly, apparently unmoved by her cousin’s talk of ‘intelligencers’.

“You may speak freely in front of Morwenna.” Elizabeth said. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ross’ jaw drop as he too understood the implications of this. It seemed Morwenna had joined her cousins’ network of spies. Francis supposed it made a deal of sense all things considered. From what he had seen, Morwenna was a very clever girl. She was also quite possibly the least likely spy one could ever imagine, and therefore a perfect one.

“Well, then, I may say that there is nothing _to_ say. Everywhere we turn we are running into a wall.”

“One thing did occur.” Everyone looked at Ross in surprise, and he immediately seemed to regret opening his mouth. “I was unfortunate enough to run into Ruth Treneglos yesterday afternoon and amongst her torrent of chatter, I did manage to catch that apparently Lt. Armitage was to run for Parliament in the next election?”

“And you think that may have something to do with his kidnapping?”

“It’s possible. He would not be the first politician to be targeted by rivals. Although they generally make it to Parliament first!”

“It is the most likely motive we have encountered.”

“Ahem.” Both Poldarks turned at George’s quiet cough to find their three hosts regarding them with an odd measure of amusement.

“What?” Ross asked, somewhat rudely, clearly not liking the feeling that he was being mocked.

“I am afraid you are correct, Ross, except for one thing. Hugh had given notice of intention to withdraw his candidacy.”

Francis fought the urge to put his head in his hands. Another dead end. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone who read this fic on tumblr might notice some small changes - I've just tidied it up a bit :D 
> 
> Apologies to any Romelza fans reading, but Francis/Demelza is a guilty pleasure ship of mine! 
> 
> Thank you for reading :)


	5. Chapter 4

“Is there still no news?” George could tell from Elizabeth’s expression that his answer to her question was written all over his face. Her mouth turned downwards sadly, but she quickly recovered a wide smile when Nicholas looked up at her from where he sat on her lap. With a sigh, George joined her on the sofa, kissing her softly on the cheek.

“Hello, my boy, how are you today?” Nicholas giggled, giving George a gummy smile.

“As lively as ever.” Elizabeth stroked Nicholas’ downy hair as the baby tugged gently on a trailing ruffle of her fichu. “I think he wants to run around with the others – he watches them so intently.”

“Ah, so we have another little adventurer on our hands, hm?” All of their children were lively, inquisitive creatures, so it was no surprise that Nicholas was following in his siblings’ footsteps. Not literally yet, however. He was not quite old enough to walk, although he had taken a few unsteady steps, much to his parents’ delight. “One who should be in bed, I might add!”

“Exactly what I said!” Elizabeth laughed, bouncing Nicholas gently. It was getting late – George had been at the bank most of the day, having been kept away on magisterial duties for a few days. Francis had sent him a couple of notes updating him on the investigation into Hugh’s kidnap, although they had primarily been to report that there was no news.

The parlour door clicked quietly open and Morwenna entered, smiling in greeting when she saw George.

“Good evening, my dear.”

“Good evening. The girls are sleeping. Valentine was most displeased to be told he could have no more story for tonight.”

“Thank you, my dear.” Elizabeth smiled at her cousin. “If this one would go to sleep at a reasonable hour, I would have seen to them myself.”

“Oh, it is no bother. I am very fond of them.” Morwenna was wonderful with the children, and they adored her in return. There had been no intention for her to act as a governess when she came to live with the family, but she had assumed something of the role on her own: reading to the children, taking them for walks in the gardens to see flowers and birds, teaching Valentine to pick out a tune on the spinet.

“There is no news about Hugh, I am afraid.” George thought it would be best to cut to the chase. Morwenna was a clever girl and deserved to be treated as such, not as if she were a delicate maiden.

“In the circumstances, perhaps that can be considered a cause for hope.” She glanced down at her lap for a moment, a flicker of sadness crossing her face. George felt a pang of sympathy for her. He did not know the exact nature of her relationship with Hugh, but they were at the very least particular friends. Elizabeth had introduced them at a dinner party given by the Enyses and they’d spent most of the evening in deep discussion. The young man had visited her on several occasions, and they’d walked together in the gardens at Cardew. They had also exchanged letters.

“Yes, my dear. We can only hope so.” Elizabeth glanced at George sadly. He knew she believed there was a true connection between Hugh and Morwenna, and George had no reason to doubt her judgement, although Morwenna was not the type to show her true feelings to the whole world without caution. He frowned to himself for a moment, knowing there were things he must ask Morwenna – should have asked her before now – but not wishing to upset her.

It had been after some discussion that he and Elizabeth had recruited Morwenna into their intelligence network, unsure not of her wit or capability, but of her suitability for such work. She had led something of a sheltered life with her mother and sisters, even after her father’s death. However, she’d more than proven herself up to the task – her kind, gentle nature made her above suspicion from even the most cautious or crafty of men. It was quite remarkable how careless a gentleman might be with his words while trying to impress a pretty young girl, especially one who was the unmarried cousin of one of the richest men in the county. Furthermore, nobody looked twice at her when she sat with her easel or sketchbook; of course she would just be capturing a charming sea view, not also recording every ship which passed, or which caves on which beaches seemed to be experiencing an unusual number of visitors.

George glanced at Elizabeth, hoping to try to silently seek her opinion, but she was temporarily distracted by Nicholas pulling at the ends of her hair. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Morwenna regarding him with a slight frown, as if she somehow guessed that she was the subject of his consideration. He had already decided to be frank with her, so there was point changing his mind now.

“Morwenna, my dear, I must ask: Has Hugh said anything to you at all which might give any reason for his abduction? Anything about his uncle?” He and Elizabeth had never pried into the contents of Morwenna’s talks with Hugh, nor their letters, only hearing what she chose to share. She had chiefly mentioned their discussions of books and nature and art – the ordinary sorts of things young couples often shared. “I ask not to pry, but – “

“No, I know why you must ask, and it is considerate of you to have refrained, but sadly I do not think I know anything helpful. These last few days, I have been turning over everything we have talked of in case it gave some hint, but I can think of nothing.”

“Did you never discuss Lord Falmouth?” Elizabeth had looked up from gently untangling Nicholas’ little fingers from her curls – the baby seemed to be nodding off at last.

“Oh yes, although not often. Hugh told me how he came to live with his Lordship after his parents died, but all of that is well known enough, I think…” Hugh’s mother and father had been killed when their carriage overturned in bad weather on their way home from visiting him at Eton. He’d been about fifteen at the time, so far as George recalled. Having become on orphan at near the same age himself, he’d felt some sympathy for the young man, despite having barely known the family. “There is not much else, nothing of note at least. His Lordship has high hopes for Hugh, I think, but they are not close. I do not get the impression that he is much of a fatherly figure to Hugh.”

“How sad.” Elizabeth glanced at George briefly, and he knew what she thought of. Something else he had in common with Hugh – being left in the care of an uncle with little thought for him beyond the financial. He touched her lightly on the arm before looking back at Morwenna, who was frowning to herself – upset that she could shed no more light on the mystery of her friend’s kidnap, no doubt.

“Hugh said that his Lordship did not like to discuss business with him – certainly not in more than vague terms, at least. From what you say, I imagine that Lord Falmouth did not wish to acknowledge the true state of his finances.” She raised her eyebrows and George nodded – it was a fair conclusion to come to. Falmouth continued to baldly deny the deep decline in his family’s fortunes, an attempt to save face when generally did quite the opposite. The state of his mines, his lands, was plain for any to see. George would never publicly disclose the affairs of any of his clients, but he did not need to breathe a word for the situation to be quite obvious. He had seen plenty of raised eyebrows at the lavish decorations and refreshments laid on at Falmouth’s last ball, and at his expensive new Arabian purchased specially for the hunt last season.

“And you can think of nothing more?” Morwenna pursed her lips at George’s question, and then shook her head.

“No. I am sorry. I wish there was something more I could say, but there is not.”

“Do not fret, my dear, you have helped as much as you can, and that is all we can ask for.” Elizabeth smiled gently at her cousin, who returned it sadly, looking back down at the book she held tightly on her lap.

“Well, it seems we have finally tired out young Nicholas.” George decided that they had talked over poor Hugh quite enough this evening, especially considering they could get no further toward finding the young man. Nicholas was deeply asleep in Elizabeth’s arms, cuddled into her shawl.

“I will put him to bed – provided he does not start protesting as soon as I try to put him down!” Elizabeth rose carefully, cradling the baby close. “It will be time for dinner soon – oh, there is the gong now, is it not?”

“No, that sounded more like the doorbell.” At Morwenna’s words, Sarah entered with a swift knock.

“Visitors, sir.”

“Visitors? At this time of night?” George frowned. If it were magisterial business, it could only be bad news. Dear Lord, had there been some terrible development with Hugh?

“The gentlemen did apologise, sir, but they say it is most urgent.”

“Who?” If it were Francis, or even Ross or Henshaw they would have likely walked in by now – urgent business had little time for formality, something even George could live with.

“It’s Sir Francis Basset, Sir, with Lord Falmouth.” 

~

George thought longingly of the dinner which was no doubt cooling rapidly at the table as he endured Sir Francis and Lord Falmouth’s prevarication. They would not come to the point of their visit, despite their claims of urgency. There had been some polite discussion of Hugh, George assuring them as usual that the constables and the magistrates were doing all they could to identify the culprits.

Sir Francis had expounded for a while on his desire to do something to help ‘poor young Hugh’ of whom he claimed to be very fond. George did not dislike Sir Francis – he was generally a decent man with noble intentions – but he was a touch too happy to talk a great deal about his desire to do good for the people, as opposed to actually achieving anything of note.

“Forgive me, gentlemen, but if you merely wished to discuss Lt. Armitage’s case, it would have been much more convenient for you both if you had visited myself and Mr Poldark at the magistrate’s court tomorrow. We are sitting again.” More convenient for George also, as he could be eating dinner with Elizabeth and Morwenna instead of sitting her talking in the same circles as he felt like he had been doing for days.

“Oh no, sir! You see, we have a proposition for you.” That had not been what George was expecting at all, and his surprise evidently showed on his face because Sir Francis hurried to explain himself. “Or rather, we come to ask a favour of you.”

“A favour?” George liked the notion of a ‘favour’ even less than a ‘proposition’. There was something about this visit which did not sit well with him, although he could not put his finger on what. Not wishing to appear uneasy, he folded his hands on his knee and gazed steadily at Sir Francis.

“Well, as of course you know, the fiends who have snatched young Hugh have demanded the outrageous sum of 10,000 pounds to be paid by Saturday next – “

“And Sir Francis has gladly agreed to provide some 5,000 pounds by way of a loan – my finances being tied up in property, as you know.” Lord Falmouth smoothly interrupted, although he glanced down as he spoke. This, of course, was rather close to admitting his dire financial straits; George rather thought that he could be less circumspect considering his nephew’s life was quite likely in serious danger. Then, Falmouth’s exact words sunk in and George frowned.

“5,000?” He had a creeping suspicion as to where this was going.

“Yes,” Sir Francis nodded. “It is the largest sum I can draw down from the bank’s coffers at this notice. As a fellow financier, I thought perhaps that you would be best placed to provide the remaining sum.”

“I see.” George did not like this one bit. Sir Francis and Falmouth were both looking at him expectantly; he was being backed into a corner. Refuse, and he appeared to be heartless, too mercenary to aid a man in distress, especially given his position as a magistrate. He could not claim to be unable to produce the sum; Sir Francis at least would know full well that he could. The Warleggan Bank was worth far more than Basset’s, and although it had been brought in under the cover of night as usual, Sir Francis was likely to be aware that a coach transporting coin and notes had deposited them at the bank only three nights previously. It would take a great deal of the physical reserves he held currently at the Truro office, under heavy security of course, but the 5,000 could be provided.

“Of course, it would be in the manner of a loan.” Lord Falmouth assured him, and George fought not to raise his eyebrows in doubt. Falmouth could not afford to repay that sum without selling a deal of his property. Perhaps that was what he intended to do, although George was not entirely convinced. “But, naturally, we hope that the ransom will never reach the hands of these kidnappers. We trust that you and Mr Poldark and your men will catch these scoundrels.”

“Hm.” Once again, something struck George as off. Did Falmouth doubt their abilities, and that was why he truly sought to make up the ransom? And he was merely flattering George so that he would be more willing to provide the money? It was quite likely; and, considering their complete lack of progress so far, not entirely unreasonable. He looked directly at Falmouth, who held his gaze for a moment before clearing his throat and glancing away and back. The man seemed much his usual arrogant, lugubrious self, despite the circumstances. That did not necessarily signify, however. Grief and stress did not always affect others as one might expect, although if Morwenna were correct, Falmouth may not be especially despairing over his nephew’s fate, only what his loss might mean for the future of the Falmouths.

“I am sure that you agree, George – Mr Warleggan – “ Sir Francis had obviously seen George’s lips purse at the use of his first name – “that as pillars of the community, it would behove us to do this in service of saving a young man’s life.”

“Yes,” George said slowly, “I am sure that it would.”


	6. Chapter 5

“This way, Sirs.” The same maid who shown them in on their last visit ushered Ross and Francis into the Warleggan townhouse’s finely appointed parlour. Ross had made an occasional visit to the place in the course of business and always had to grudgingly admire it. It was hardly a surprise that George could afford such accommodation; Ross had known how the successful the Warleggans were even before his return to Cornwall. He’d seen ships emblazoned with their livery docked in the Port of London, a sight which had once filled him with bitterness, reminding him of the achievements of the man who, as Ross had believed then, had stolen the woman he loved.

When they entered, George was standing by the unlit fireplace, holding a little girl in his arms. One of the twin daughters, Ross thought. He’d only seen the Warleggan children at a distance, save the eldest boy, Valentine, who he’d met out walking with Elizabeth in Truro one day. As much as he now felt he’d been able to draw something of a line under his youthful romance with Elizabeth, realising to his own regret that he’d wasted several long years of his life on misplaced bitterness and resentment, but he still felt a small pang at the sight of the girl. With her dark hair and soft features, she looked a great deal like her mother. It would haunt him for a long time, Ross supposed – the notion of _what if?_

“There now, is that better?” George murmured to his daughter. When she turned to peep shyly at the new arrivals, it was obvious she’d been crying. She buried her face back in his neck-cloth again. “Now, don’t be shy. You know Francis, and Captain Poldark is his cousin.”

She murmured something and George chuckled. Ross wasn’t sure he’d ever heard the other man laugh before – the closest he generally got to expressing amusement was a slight twitch of the mouth.

“Very well, now go along with Sarah.” He passed the girl off to the housemaid who bounced her gently as she carried her out, whispering something about fetching a treat from the kitchen. They were passed on their way out by Elizabeth and Morwenna Chynoweth entering, both women pausing to touch the little girl’s cheek.

“Francis, Ross, good morning.” Elizabeth greeted them with a gentle smile, running her hand down her husband’s arm as she sat down next to him, her cousin on her other side. Ross tried his best not to stare at Morwenna; the resemblance between her and Elizabeth truly was remarkable. He was not attracted to the girl – she was far too young – but he had to admit to finding her intriguing, especially since he had learned that she was involved with George’s secretive work for the Admiralty. It had been enough of a surprise to find that Elizabeth had an integral part, let alone her sweet, somewhat shy young cousin.

“George? You said you had something to share?” Francis got straight to business once they were all seated, Ross overly conscious of his mud-splattered breeches as he perched on the edge of the beige-upholstered sofa.

“Yes. Last night, I received an unexpected visit…” George told them the full extent of his meeting with Sir Francis Bassett and Lord Falmouth, and Ross was sure he must be showing the same surprise as he could see on Francis’ face. Elizabeth and Morwenna had evidently already heard the story, and Ross had to admit that he still felt rather odd about involving women in such work. Perhaps it was wrong of him, but he knew that in the event he and Elizabeth _had_ married, it would have been his instinct to keep her far away from this – from the criminal, brutal side of life; and yet, Elizabeth appeared to have taken to this work with ease. He remembered something George had said to him several months ago, when Ross had accused him of endangering Elizabeth: _Elizabeth may have been intended for life as a society wife, but she was made for so much more than that_. It was entirely true, and had merely underlined how little he and Elizabeth had truly known each other when they were wrapped up in their first flush of love – or what they had thought was love.

“So, you have agreed to provide the money?” Francis’ question cut through Ross’ musing. George made a face in answer.

“I could hardly refuse without appearing callous. Besides, if we remain unable to identify the culprits, we may be forced to pay the ransom in order to ensure Hugh’s safe return; and there has never been any chance of Lord Falmouth being able to procure the funds in time.” Ross saw Elizabeth cover Morwenna’s hand with hers. Although she appeared to be bearing up well, this must be affecting the girl deeply, if she were truly as attached to Lt. Armitage as Francis believed.

“But you feel that there is something off about this?” Francis frowned. Ross, however, found that he could not but agree with George, albeit slightly reluctantly. It was a touch petty of him but he still found himself begrudging any respect he had formed for his old rival’s capabilities. Long before Elizabeth, they had suffered a clash of temperaments at school; that would never be surmounted, but at least they could now work together civilly, with the help of Francis’ mediating presence.

“Yes. I cannot explain it, but…Falmouth was acting oddly. I believe he may know more about this than he has said. Perhaps he knows the perpetrators, but is keeping it secret for some reason.”

“That would not surprise me.” Ross frowned. Something had been niggling at him, and he now realised what it was. “But are Sir Francis and Lord Falmouth not old enemies? I know Sir Francis’ father loathed him.”

“Why, yes!” Francis shook his head. “I should have thought of that myself. They are not quite enemies exactly, but they are certainly not friends. Why, then, would Sir Francis be so eager to assist?”

“I thought the same thing, indeed, I wondered if Sir Francis could even be involved somehow, and attempting to avert suspicion, but Morwenna assures me that is unlikely.” He glanced at his cousin, who nodded.

“Unless Sir Francis is an especially effective dissembler. Hugh always speaks well of him, and Sir Francis is very kind to him, despite his differences with his Lordship. I do not know Sir Francis as well as any of you, but in my opinion he would not do this.” She spoke with an impressive confidence, sure of her judgement. George evidently trusted her, and he was certainly not easily taken in.

“Which returned me to my original idea, that Lord Falmouth may know more about this.”

“Well,” said Francis. “I suggest we go and find out.” 

~

In the end, only Francis and Ross went to Garrow Hall, George needing to start making arrangements for the ransom.

“We must consider the possibility that whoever has snatched Hugh is watching either Lord Falmouth, or us, or both. If they believe we are to pay the ransom, they are less likely to do anything rash.” It was an excellent point, and something which had occurred to Ross, although he had certainly not felt that he was being observed. Of course, if they were clever, the kidnappers would never follow him to Nampara – it was too remote a road to travel undetected. George would be easier to watch in the town, and even Francis, Trenwith lying on a much busier thoroughfare.

The Hall was virtually silent when they arrived, and it took quite some time for a servant to answer the front door. Aside from that footman, there was little sign of any other staff. If Lord Falmouth’s finances were in the state they were popularly believed to be, then perhaps there weren’t many others.

“Gentleman! I pray you bring news of my dear nephew?” Lord Falmouth’s garrulousness struck an odd note with Ross. He seemed peculiarly cheerful for a man whose nephew was quite possibly in mortal danger. Keeping up appearances seemed to be a preoccupation of Falmouth’s.

“Yes and no, my Lord.” Francis handed his hat off to a maid who had finally emerged from somewhere in the rear of the house. “Perhaps we could speak privately?”

“Of course, of course…”

They had agreed on what they would put to him before they left the Warleggan townhouse, and refined their plan on the ride over. Essentially, they intended to use the delivery of the ransom as a means to catch the kidnappers. Observe the point of delivery and either follow or apprehend whoever retrieved it, whichever seemed the most appropriate action. This was both a reasonable scheme in the even they could not identify the culprits before the appointed date, and a gauge for Lord Falmouth’s reaction. If he knew more than he was saying, his response may be indicative.

“Well, gentlemen, I certainly admire your ingenuity…” An overly insinuating note in Falmouth’s voice immediately pricked at Ross. The man’s tone was generally one of arrogant superiority, no matter who he spoke to. “But I must ask if there is not some other plan?”

“It appears to be our best option to both rescue Hugh and identify those responsible for this terrible crime against him.” Francis was keeping his expression carefully neutral as he spoke, his tone even, nothing giving away his interest in Falmouth’s reaction. Ross once again had to admire his cousin’s aptitude for this line of work.

“Oh, but it is Hugh which concerns me…” Falmouth adopted an expression of worry, which was not quite convincing somehow. It seemed Morwenna had been correct yet again – Falmouth did not care much for his nephew, not in a familial way at least. “If these fiends were to spy your men and realise they were being followed, they could hurt poor Hugh. It may jeopardise his safety, and our only chance at bringing him home.”

“Well, my Lord, I certainly understand your concern,” Francis gave a conciliatory tilt of his head. “Perhaps we will consider an alternative.”

As they waited on the drive for their horses, Ross exchanged a glance with Francis, seeing his own conclusions reflected in his cousins’ eyes. George was right – Lord Falmouth certainly knew more about this matter than he was willing to let on. His eagerness to keep the constables away from the kidnappers suggested he probably had some idea which of his enemies was responsible, and whether from embarrassment or because they had something else to hold over him besides his nephew, something he did not wish for anyone else to find out.

They had believed this case complicated and mysterious as it was, yet somehow this new conclusion had made it even more so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I hope you're enjoying the story :D


	7. Chapter 6

“And… _step_ , one, two, three…oh no!” Elizabeth bent down to see if Clare was all right, the little girl having got tangled in her skirts and fallen onto her bottom. However, instead of bursting into tears, she began to giggle delightedly, Susannah and Ursula joining in. Clare scrambled to her feet, and Elizabeth patted her gently on the head. “Shall we continue?”

“Yes, Mama!” The girls chorused, and soon they were holding their skirts and attempting, with only a little wobbling, to adopt the same elegant stances as their mother and Morwenna. They were too young to need to learn to dance, really, but they’d all begged to be taught, having crept out onto the landing to peep at parties hosted by their parents, and Elizabeth had finally agreed. Morwenna rather suspected that her cousin had chosen today in particular to teach them because she was hoping that the activity would divert Morwenna from the terrible situation with Hugh.

She was grateful to Elizabeth for her consideration, and indeed she was terribly worried for Hugh, but she had to confess that she was beginning to feel a touch stifled by everyone’s delicacy. Even George was being a little hesitant with her. For Heaven’s sake, she was not the one being held by criminals! She would be devastated if something happened to Hugh, but she would not be the one hurt or…worse. Poor Hugh. She hoped that he was being treated well, but she had learned enough of the darker nature of man even in the short time she had been aiding George and Elizabeth in their secret work to know that may be a faint hope. She dreaded to imagine what Hugh might be suffering, especially considering…

It worried her deeply that George and Francis Poldark were so thwarted in their investigation – if they and their men could not even being to identify the culprits, then what chance was there of apprehending them? Yes, George and Sir Francis were going to pay the ransom on Lord Falmouth’s behalf, and that would free Hugh, God willing, but the kidnappers could end up getting away with their crime, free to snatch some other innocent soul. Morwenna looked at the little Warleggan girls, gathered around Elizabeth. She had come to love them – and their brothers – very much, and the thought of any harm coming to them made her chest tighten, even more so than the worry of what might be happening to Hugh. Perhaps George was forbidding enough that no man would dare target his children, but what about the sons and daughters of other rich and influential men?

For days, Morwenna had wracked her brains for any information, any tiny hint or snippet of the conversations she had shared with Hugh that might be useful, but there was nothing she felt she could share. He was too kind, too gentle, to have enemies of his own, and Lord Falmouth was so distant that Hugh knew almost nothing worthwhile about his closest relative. It frustrated her to feel so useless.

“Morwenna? My dear?” Elizabeth’s voice cut into her thoughts, and Morwenna realised she had drifted. “Are you well?”

“Yes, Elizabeth, quite well, I promise. Now, girls, where were we?” She smiled down at them. They may be young, but they were all clever enough to sense if something were wrong. Elizabeth’s dancing lesson was like as not as much an attempt to divert them as it was Morwenna. However, before they could resume, there was the quiet chime of the doorbell, and a few moments later, Sarah entered.

“Mistress Vosper to see you, Mistress, Miss.” Morwenna exchanged a glance with Elizabeth. Margaret Vosper was, after Elizabeth, and perhaps Morwenna now, George’s most trusted agent. A young widow in whose presence snobbish maidens muttered of the _demimondaine_ behind their fans while their husbands and sons clustered around her. She was a charming woman, and entertaining company, but not generally given to social calls. If she were here to see them, it could only be on business. Although, why not see George? He was at the magistrates’ court again today with Mr Poldark.

“Show her in, Sarah. Girls, dancing will have to wait, now go on upstairs. Valentine will have finished his lessons, and you can all play.” The girls protested, but obediently trooped out, the sound of little feet tripping up the stairs floating in from the hallway before Elizabeth closed the door.

“Margaret, my dear, how are you?” Elizabeth greeted her with a smile, which Margaret returned.

“I’m well, thank you, Elizabeth.” Morwenna knew little of Margaret’s past, but her accent was intriguing. It was not quite that of a gentlewoman, like Elizabeth’s or Caroline Enys’, but it was more cultured than a labourer’s or a housemaid’s. “And you both? And the children?”

“Well, as we can be given the circumstances.” Morwenna saw Margaret shoot her a sympathetic glance and managed not to sigh. She truly did appreciate everyone’s concern, but it was really too wearing. “But may I hope that your visit could signal an improvement in those circumstances?”

“I’m afraid not. At least, I don’t think so.” Margaret frowned apologetically. “That’s why I came to see you instead of Mr Warleggan. I have something, but I don’t think it has to do with Lt. Armitage, so I didn’t want to bother him. It is curious, though.”

“Well, please tell us. I think we could do with a distraction, and as much as I do not wish to sound careless, poor Hugh’s misfortune is far from the only one. If there is something else going on, it deserves just as much consideration.”

“I don’t know that anything is _‘_ going on’. Oh, perhaps this was a mistake and it’s nothing. I shouldn’t be wasting your time when I could be looking into Lt. Armitage’s disappearance with everyone else.” Margaret made to rise but both Elizabeth and Morwenna stopped her.

“No, please, Margaret. Tell us.” Morwenna saw Elizabeth nod encouragingly at her words. She had not known Margaret for long, nor near as well her cousin, but Morwenna was certain she was thinking the same thing as Elizabeth. The imperious gossips of the district might call Margaret’s reputation into question, but no one could doubt her intelligence, nor her instincts. If she thought something was afoot, she was like as not right.

“All right.” Margaret pursed her lips a little, gathering her thoughts. “I am acquainted with a Mr. Samuel Frobisher – an old friend of my late husband. He is employed by Mr Elston’s agency, I am sure you know of it.”

“Indeed.” Elizabeth agreed. Morwenna had to think for a moment, but then she had it. Elston was a shipping agent, organising travel and transport for clients. She had heard George mention the name in relation to the Warleggan Shipping Co.

“Well, shall we say that he is aware that I like _interesting_ information.” Margaret raised her eyebrows, and Morwenna and Elizabeth nodded. What Margaret meant was that she had cultivated Mr Frobisher as a source of intelligence, although without him knowing precisely for whom Margaret worked. “And he told me of an odd request he received quite recent. A letter asking that he arrange passage for two travellers to New York from Plymouth, to depart on Sunday. Well, he most often deals with trips to Ireland or Jersey, not the Americas, so that interested him from the off.”

“Who requested this passage?” Morwenna asked.

“Well, that’s just it, Miss Morwenna! The letter was anonymous, and the papers were to be deposited at the letter office under the name J Smith, where his payment was to be left waiting. Sure enough, the money was there – in coin, no less.” There was a brief silence while Elizabeth and Morwenna absorbed this story, a pause which Margaret evidently misinterpreted. “You see, I said it was nothing, really. I shouldn’t have come…”

“No, Margaret, I believe you are on to something.” Elizabeth looked thoughtful.

“You do?”

“Well, does the date of departure not strike you?” Morwenna had had the same thought, and could not help but answer for Margaret.

“The day after the ransom is to be paid!”

“You think it may be the kidnappers? That would explain the desire for anonymity. I never thought…”

“Of course, it does not lead us anywhere now, since we have nothing of them but a pseudonym. At least we know there are two of them…” Elizabeth frowned.

“I do have a description of the man who collected the travel papers. I ‘enquired’ at the letter office – “ by which Margaret almost certainly meant that she’d tipped the clerk “ – and Mr J Smith is thin, somewhere between thirty and forty, with brown hair. Not much, I know.”

“It’s more than we had before!”

“I also have the original letter of enquiry sent to Mr Frobisher.” Margaret pulled open the tie of her little bag and produced a piece of neatly folded paper, handing it to Elizabeth. Morwenna resisted the urge to try to read over her cousin’s shoulder. “I don’t recognise the writing.”

“I do!” Elizabeth looked at Morwenna, oddly stricken. “It’s Hugh’s!” 

~

“The gentlemen are talking…” An officious magistrates’ clerk attempted to head the three women off as they hurried through the court, but Elizabeth brushed him aside with little effort.

“I am sure they are, and we intend to talk to them.” She had insisted they go to the court immediately to tell George and Francis what they had learned. Chiefly, that the handwriting on the ransom note was _not_ Hugh Armitage’s.

Morwenna had forgotten her manners and snatched the letter of out Elizabeth’s hands, confusion and disbelief overriding any delicacy. It had been almost a physical relief to see that Elizabeth was wrong, as she so rarely was. The letter sent to Margaret Vosper’s travel agent friend may have been written in the same hand as the ransom note, but Hugh did not write that note. Morwenna had never seen it, although she knew its contents. She cursed herself for not asking to read it, but she had been so upset by the idea of what had happened to Hugh that the idea had never entered her mind.

She’d been hesitant to produce proof of her assertion, since it was contained in her private correspondence with Hugh, but if it would help save him…

_To stand upon the shores and look across_

_The waters, to that place where the sea meets the heavens_

_It seems so far, but every day comes closer still_

_All must make the journey, and yet we cannot_

_Linger with those behind us, who have not yet begun._

The few lines of a poem he had written for her revealed Hugh’s hand to be tentative and spidery, a contrast to the neat, flowing script of the ransom note and the letter to Mr Frobisher. Hugh’s headaches made writing for extended periods uncomfortable, and blurred his vision.

Four men looked up in surprise as Elizabeth threw open the doors to the courtroom. Clustered around the great table they called the bench, George, Francis Poldark, Captain Poldark and a constable whose name it took Morwenna moment to recall – Henshaw.

“Elizabeth? Morwenna? Margaret? What is the matter?” George obviously sensed their urgency, skirting around the bench to approach them. All three women began talking at once before Elizabeth waved her hand to shush them. 

“Wait! Wait! We must go about this methodically. First, Margaret, tell them what you told us.” And so, Margaret told her tale of Mr Frobisher and his mystery client; the other three men frowned alternately in confusion and impatience as she spoke, only George listening intently. He would know that Elizabeth would not have brought them here if it were not important, and he trusted Margaret implicitly.

Henshaw and the Poldarks were however quick to catch on when Elizabeth took over to explain the matter of the handwriting. Francis unearthed the ransom note from a pile of papers and brought it to George. 

“They are certainly the same hand, and the writer is left-handed. You see the particular slope of the writing, just like yours.” Elizabeth handed George Mr Frobisher’s letter and he frowned at the two papers for a moment before passing them back to Francis, Captain Poldark and Henshaw pressing close to look also.

“Well, I’ll be damned. But…” Francis shook his head as if to clear himself of the onslaught of questions this discovery raised.

“Surely Lord Falmouth would know this was not his nephew’s hand?” Captain Poldark looked up, glancing between all assembled, perhaps in the hope of enlightenment.

“I’m not sure if he ever saw the letter.” Henshaw said. “’Twas his secretary who found it, and who brought it t’me. P’haps he wanted to spare his lordship the distress.”

“But the kidnappers couldn’t guarantee he wouldn’t read it, so why would they pretend Hugh had written it?” Francis was still staring bewildered at the ransom note. “None of this makes any sense.”

“Could Hugh be involved, somehow? Some scheme against his uncle? We know there was no great affection between them.” Captain Poldark’s suggestion was a wild one, but the others seemed to be giving it some thought.

“No! No! Never!” Everyone else turned to stare at Morwenna’s furious exclamation, but she was not embarrassed. She could not let Hugh be spoken of like this, even as mere speculation. “He would never do such a thing, and besides, he has no reason to.”

“No reason? What do you mean, Morwenna?” Elizabeth looked at her, and Morwenna suddenly felt hesitant. She had started herself down a path she had never intended to walk.

“Hugh would not have done this.”

“How can you know that? He may be very charming, but…”

“There is a particular reason that I know he is not involved.” She cut Captain Poldark off, but she could tell by everyone else’s expressions that her answer was still not good enough.

“What reason?” Francis Poldark frowned at her, quite severely. “Miss Chynoweth, if there is something which you have been concealing from us…”

“I will tell you.” She drew herself up straight, met the gaze of each of them in turn. “But absolutely not before I have spoken to Dr Enys.” 


	8. Chapter 7

“What on Earth are can they be talking about?” Ross paced crossly up and down the courtroom, the click of his boots beginning to grate on George. The older Poldark had never been the patient type, although he was not the only person in the room looking restless. Francis and Henshaw were both frowning, while Margaret fiddled with the hem of her jacket. Only George and Elizabeth sat quietly, her hand resting on his knee.

They were both puzzled by Morwenna’s insistence on speaking to Dwight Enys before she would tell them what she knew about Hugh, but they also both trusted that she had good reason. She was not a flighty girl, prone to silly whims.

Francis and Ross had objected to her demand, but Morwenna remained steadfast, and George and Elizabeth had backed her up. Eventually, the doctor had been fetched – although the atmosphere in the room while they awaited his arrival had been somewhat tense – and he and Morwenna had disappeared into a side chamber.

A door opened and closed somewhere outside and everyone simultaneously looked up in the hope that they were returning, but footsteps echoed away along a corridor and the whole room seemed to collectively slump. George’s mind was not entirely on the situation at hand, however. Something had been nagging at him ever since Elizabeth had shown him the letter sent to Margaret’s friend at the shipping agency. He, like everyone else, had previously believed that the ransom note had been written by Hugh, but now that he’d seen proof that it wasn’t, and another letter in the same hand, he’d begun to think that it actually looked somewhat familiar.

Standing, he crossed to the bench and picked up the two papers again, aware of five pairs of eyes turning toward him. He ignored them, staring at the patterns of the writing, searching his memory for where he might have seen it before. Francis turned to him, apparently about to speak, when the door finally opened, and Morwenna and Dr Enys returned.

They stood side by side next to the public benches on one side of the room, and George briefly had the absurd thought that they looked like two children expecting to be told off.

“Well? What’s all this about?” Francis asked, irritably. Dr Enys frowned at his snappish tone but said nothing.

“I’m sorry, I really am not trying to cause delay, or to be deliberately secretive,” Morwenna glanced down, her hat shadowing her face for a moment. “I think you will understand, but perhaps Dr Enys can explain better.”

“Yes.” The doctor cleared his throat, taking a small step forward. “You may recall, gentlemen, that I told you when Hugh first disappeared that he is unwell. I am afraid, however, that I was not entirely honest with you; or, rather, I did not apprise you of the full truth. Hugh’s condition is far more serious than I indicated. With treatment, his symptoms are eased, but in truth, he is declining. It is entirely likely that within a short time he will be entirely blind, and not long after that…”

“Good Heavens.” Elizabeth murmured. “You mean..?”

She did not need to finish; it was clear that everyone understood the implications of the doctor’s words. Hugh Armitage was almost certainly dying, and both he and Morwenna had chosen to conceal this fact.

“Why did you not tell us this earlier? Either of you?” Ross demanded, stepping forward. He looked angry with his old friend, but the doctor was unmoved.

“I respect my patients’ privacy, Ross. It did not seem necessary at the time to disclose the full extent of his illness. I doubted that it made any difference to the circumstances of his disappearance.”

“And you knew this, Morwenna?”

“Yes, Hugh told me. Also in confidence.” She drew herself up and looked steadily at them all. George admired her resolution. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Elizabeth nod encouragingly at her cousin. “But when you suspected Hugh of involvement in his own kidnapping…I thought perhaps I should tell you, but I wanted to ask Dr Enys’ advice first.”

“Miss Chynoweth has acted very admirably, in my opinion.” Dwight said, firmly. “But as it happens I was considering telling you myself. The longer Hugh is missing, the worse his condition may become. He has no medicine, and it unlikely those who are holding him are keeping him in comfort. I do not know the precise progress of your investigation, but as time passes, it becomes more imperative that he is found.”

“We hope,” Francis looked around as if to see if anyone were about to object to his words, “that he will be released on Friday, as the ransom has been raised.”

“Are you any closer to identifying the culprits?” Francis, Ross and Henshaw looked at one another uneasily at Dwight’s question. Francis began to answer, but George didn’t hear what he said, if anything. Something had suddenly clicked into place in his mind.

“I knew it!” Without a further word, he turned and strode out. 

~

“For Heaven’s sake, George, what _are_ you doing?” They must have looked a peculiar bunch, the four men and three women following George along two streets between the magistrates’ court and the Warleggan Bank. Now they were all gathered in George’s office as he rummaged in his files, finally finding the ledger he wanted.

“Here! I knew I’d seen it before…”

“Seen _what_?!” George produced the paper he sought and brandished it at Francis, everyone else crowding around to read it.

“That’s the handwriting from the ransom note!” Elizabeth got there first, although George saw the realisation cross the faces of the others. Dwight Enys frowned, not having quite the same details as everyone else. 

“But who wrote this letter?” Francis’s eyes roamed over the pages, seeking the signature.

“Thomas Butler, Lord Falmouth’s private secretary.” George finished.

“Which explains why nobody was seen delivering the note.” Henshaw shook his head. “Bastard delivered it himself. Er, ‘scuse me, ladies.”

“Bold, to organise the kidnapping of your employer’s own nephew.” Ross frowned. “He can’t be acting alone, though. Some of other household staff, perhaps?”

“Did Hugh ever speak to you of Butler, Morwenna?” Elizabeth turned to her cousin.

“Not in particular. I don’t think Hugh had much to do with him.”

Although this was a great breakthrough, George could not but feel they were still missing something. He could see that most of the others seemed to be thinking along the same lines. However, before anyone could speak further, there was an abrupt knock on the door and Ted Carkeek entered, looking at the gathered group in some confusion.

“Er, the clerk said ye were all ‘ere. I have some information, like, about Lt. Armitage.” He glanced at the assembled company, clearly uncertain what he could say in front of them.

“Come in Ted. The more the merrier, at this point.” Francis sighed. “Although we have made quite a significant discovery ourselves. It appears that Thomas Butler, Lord Falmouth’s secretary, is involved in Hugh’s kidnapping.”

“But – “ Ted’s eyed widened. “But that’s what I’ve come to tell ye!”

“What?” George felt a headache coming on. After days of absolutely no progress on this investigation, everything seemed to be happening at once, and yet they were no closer to making sense of it all.

“Well, one of the housemaids at Garrow Hall came t’see me. She knows me sister some, it seems. Anyhow, she says there’s been some odd business going on at the ‘ouse since Master Hugh disappeared, like. ‘Pparantly, a couple o’footmen ‘ave been takin’ boxes out the ‘ouse at night and into one of the coach ‘ouses, as if they were packin’, but in secret, like. And then, thinkin’ ‘bout it, she recalled overhearin’ Butler talkin’ to someone about leavin’ before Hugh disappeared, like. She never saw who, though.” There was a brief silence as everyone took all of this in. Ted wrung his tricorn hat in his hands, as if concerned he had done wrong somehow, despite having uncovered some extremely valuable information. The young man had proven himself a capable constable under Henshaw’s guidance, but he lacked confidence.

“So…” Francis began, eventually. “Butler must be planning to make his escape with the ransom. Perhaps these footmen are his accomplices? But we cannot question any of them without tipping off Butler as to our suspicions. He may flee, or…worse.”

George saw Morwenna glance down and Elizabeth touch her arm gently. There was no need to spell out the possible implications for Hugh if his kidnappers were to be alarmed in any way.

“We must observe Butler – where he goes, who he sees. Perhaps he will lead us to his cohorts.” George said, and even Ross nodded in agreement without objection. “Ted, do you think your friend at the Hall could find her way to searching Butler’s rooms? Without compromising her safety, of course.”

“I’ll ask ‘er. She be fond of Master Hugh, I believe she’d be willin’ to do what she can to ‘elp.”

“And did she give you the names of these footmen?”

“Aye.”

“Give them to Henshaw,” Francis continued, turning to the other constable. “Can you look into them?”

“Aye, I’ll ask around.”

“Butler is not the only one who must be watched.” Ross pursed his lips thoughtfully. “There is a further possibility.”

“Which is what?” Margaret spoke for the first time.

“Something we have so far been reluctant to contemplate…because it is too terrible.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! :D


	9. Chapter 8

Ross tensed at the sudden sound, then tutted at himself when the owl soared out of the canopy of leaves overhead, hooting into the night.

“All ri’, Ross?” Henshaw’s murmur carried well in the still air.

“Yes…” They were crouched in the cover of the tree line, the woods bordering the gardens at Garrow Hall. It was after midnight by Ross’ reckoning and the two of them had been lurking in this approximate position for a little over five hours now. George had manufactured an excuse to invite Butler to the Bank to discuss some matter of Falmouth’s finances, claiming he didn’t wish to disturb his Lordship at such a difficult time. Ross and Henshaw had followed Butler from there, although maintaining a discreet distance on horseback in the clear spring weather had not been easy. Butler had returned to the Hall just before seven o’clock and, frustratingly, did not seem to have left since.

Ross and Henshaw had alternated watching and stretching their legs, moving gradually along the edge of the trees, so as to view the house from more than one angle. There was always the possibility that Butler could sneak out by the servants’ entrance, but according to Carkeek’s friend, he avoided the servants as much as possible, despite being an employee himself.

“D’ye think we should move again?” Ross was about to reply when he saw movement by the house. Raising his spyglass, he squinted through the eyepiece, and gave a grim smile of triumph; Butler was emerging from a small door into the gardens, wearing a tricorn hat which did not look like it belonged to him and a travelling cape just a touch too heavy for the weather. He turned and headed away from his two observers, towards a stretch of open arable land which lay across the borders of Falmouth lands. There was no sign of a horse, so Ross and Henshaw left theirs where they had been secured to trees near a small stream and followed him on foot, able to use the woods to conceal themselves for part of the way. It was trickier once they came to more open land but both men were experienced in such things. Once, Butler stopped and looked around as if he had heard something; they both ducked down behind the half-collapsed remains of a wall, and after a moment the secretary hunched his cloak around him and continued.

Eventually, after what must have been another hour, a faint, narrow light appeared up ahead, easy to discern in the low gleam of the crescent moon. It came from the small window of a run-down cottage, housing for workers on the old Meringowan farm if Ross recalled correctly. It had all fallen into disrepair when he was a young man, after the last owner died without any family. He tugged Henshaw by the sleeve, indicating a small hillock and the other man nodded. They took cover behind it, waiting until Butler approached the cottage. He seemed to knock and after a moment, the door opened. Whoever answered it was not visible in the shadow of the doorway. Ross waited a few moments after Butler had gone inside before glancing at Henshaw again, tilting his head towards the cottage.

As gradually as possible, keeping low to the ground, and in what little shadows the slightly uneven ground provided, they crept closer to the old building, concealing themselves again behind a pile of stones which was probably once a well. On this side of the cottage, there was another window. It had no lamp, but the light of the other glowed faintly around it. Barely more than a slit, it was at about shoulder height, the low eaves of the old structure casting it partly in shadow.

“Wasn’t this place searched?” Ross whispered.

“No, not this direction. There was no reason t’think Hugh would’ve come this way.”

“Damn.” Ross cursed. It was likely why Butler and his cronies had chosen the place – convenient, but sufficiently out of the way as to not attract suspicion. “I’m going to look inside.”

“Careful.”

Holding his breath, Ross crept slowly forward, half-crouched, until was under the window. Carefully, he stood, keeping to the side, until he was at eye-level with the opening. Turning his head just slightly, he was able to get a partial view into the one-room interior, the lamp at the front window casting a circle of light on crumbling walls and earthen floor. Butler stood near the doorway, two other men seated on small wooden stools. A few ale bottles littered the floor.

“’Ow much longer?” One of the seated men demanded. “We bin stuck ‘ere fer days wi’ that welp, Can’t we just be rid o’him?”

“Patience. The money has been raised, and they will pay on Friday. You’ll get your reward.”

“S’bout time.” All three men turned at a faint noise from the shadowed corner of the room. Ross strained to see without risking revealing himself. One of the seated men, the larger of the two, stood and reached into the gloom, dragging a man half into the light. It took Ross a moment to recognise him as Hugh Armitage, and not merely because of his restricted view. The young man’s fair hair was limp and filthy, falling half over his face, which was smudged with dirt. He was pale and seemed almost feverish. Clearly, he was weak, struggling onto his hands and knees.

“Damn you, Butler.” Hugh’s voice was thin and dry. At his curse, the smaller of Butler’s two cronies, a rat-faced, greasy little man, cuffed Hugh about the head and Ross thumped his fist against the stone wall. Hugh coughed and spat contemptuously on the floor; despite his obvious weakness, he was defiant. Ross could not help but admire him, but he knew the young man could not last much longer in this condition. Ducking down once more, Ross crept back to where Henshaw waited. In a hurried whisper, he explained the situation.

“We can’t leave him with them. Not even until Friday.”

“But what can we do? Only two of us?” Henshaw was right. They were both experienced men, and armed, but even if they burst in pistols in hand, there was chance they could be overpowered. He frowned, trying to think of an alternative approach; from what he could see of Henshaw’s face, he was doing the same thing. Just then, the door to the cottage opened and they both instinctively ducked further into their hiding place.

“ – collected the money. I will not return until Saturday. Be vigilant, Poldark and his men are still sniffing around. They haven’t come here yet, but they might. You’ll have to think of some story, and keep him hidden. Gag him if you need to.” Ross clenched his fists. How Butler could speak so casually of the ill-treatment of a gentleman and a war hero like Hugh. He’d dearly love to burst out into the open now and beat the man bloody, but he knew it would do no good. Butler turned to stride away, back towards the route they had trailed him on the way here.

“Should we follow ‘im back?”

“No, I don’t think so. If he intends to collect the ransom as he says, then he won’t go anywhere but back to the Hall. If he disappeared now, it would raise suspicion.”

“Then what? Try to rescue Hugh? Our odds have evened now, at least.”

“Aye, that they have, Henshaw.”

They got their opportunity not long after, having quietly moved out from behind the old well and pressed themselves against the wall of the cottage, under the window, to listen in to what went on inside. The two men said little, mostly grumbling about Butler and their impatience for their payment. One of the must have said something to Hugh, as he cursed them again. Ross had been in enough fights to recognise the sound which followed as a boot hitting a man’s body; beside him, Henshaw released an angry breath.

“Easy,” Ross murmured. “We’ll have them soon.”

“I’s needs tae tek a piss.” It was the smaller man if Ross were not mistaken. A moment later, the creak of the old wooden door, and footsteps through the grass towards them. The man appeared around the side of the cottage, and Henshaw seized Ross’ arm as they flattened themselves against the wall, holding their breaths. He did not notice them, however, weaving slightly unsteadily towards the well. With his back to them, he fumbled with the fall of his breeches, and Ross grimaced at the stream of urine let loose against the pile of stones. At the moment he finished, Ross looked to Henshaw, hoping the man could see enough of his face in the half-shadow to get his meaning. Evidently he could as Henshaw nodded and, together, they launched themselves at the little man, wrestling him to the ground, Ross wrapping his hand over his mouth to stop him from crying out.

~

After they had subdued the smaller man, binding him with Henshaw’s leather belt, and stuffing his mouth with Ross’ neckcloth, it had been a simple matter to burst into the cottage, ordering the other one– too far in his cups to offer much resistance anyhow – to sit still at gunpoint.

By this time, Hugh Armitage had been barely conscious, although he tried to speak when Ross bent over him.

“Shhh, you can tell us later.” How to get him out of here was another matter. They had come on foot, and he certainly was in no condition to walk back with them. Even if he were, they had two prisoners to contend with as well. Eventually, they decided that since Ross was the faster runner, he would go and fetch help while Henshaw stood guard. After dragging the little man back into the cottage, Ross had elected to knock the bigger one unconscious with a swift blow from the butt of his pistol, which he then left with Henshaw.

By the time he was able to return with Francis, Ted, Dwight and several other constables, a fine line of dawn light was appearing on the horizon. He had been awake since five o’clock the previous morning, but he felt oddly energised. _The thrill of the chase_ , his old Bow Street colleague Blackstone used to say.

Ted, Henshaw and the constables took the two prisoners away to the jail, under heavy guard, and with cloaks over their heads – if anyone asked, they were to be told the men were highway robbers. They could not risk Butler catching wind of his associates’ capture, lest he flee before he could be apprehended.

Very gently, Hugh was transported, also under cover, to Killewarren, where he could be in Dwight’s constant care. Francis and Ross were keen to question him, but the doctor ordered them to stay away until he had decided whether Hugh was ready for that.

“As Dwight will tell you, I am normally extremely disgruntled to be awoken before eight o’clock at the _very_ earliest, but I think on this occasion I can contain my irritation.” Caroline Enys looked remarkably fresh despite her remarks, pouring them both tea brought in by a maid who barely managed to contain a yawn as she put down the tray. Caroline turned suddenly serious. “Did they really treat him so terribly?”

“Yes.” Ross answered grimly. “But they will pay for it.”

The sun was almost entirely up when Dwight reappeared.

“Hugh would like to speak with you, although I have advised that he should really rest more first. I do understand the urgency, however.” Before either Ross or Francis could reply, there was a bang on the front door. Caroline hurried out to answer it, staff being few and far between at this hour. She returned a few moments later with George and Morwenna on her heels.

“George, I did not – “ Francis began.

“She would not let me come without her. Besides, I imagine that seeing her might do him some good, do you not?” It might well have been George and Morwenna who were cousins, given the near-identical piercing gazes they bestowed upon everyone else. Clearly, George had rubbed off on his young in-law. Ross wasn’t sure if it was for the better.

“I agree.” Dwight said. “This way.”

Caroline followed them up the stairs, pausing halfway to pick up the ridiculous, fat little creature she called a dog. Ross did not bother to object to her presence. She had a right to know what went on in her own house, and he imagined Dwight had told her as much as he felt he was able about the case as it was.

Hugh lay in a large four-poster bed, looking very small against the luxurious pillows. He was much cleaned up from the sorry state he had been found in, but still pale, dark circles around his eyes, cheeks hollow. Silently, Morwenna went to his side, across the bed from Dwight, sitting down and taking Hugh’s hand in hers. He managed a small smile at her and she nodded encouragingly.

“Just tell them everything you remember.” It took him some time, even the act of speaking clearly draining him, but he managed to get it out. On the day of his kidnap, he had been riding home from Killewarren, when a man ran into his path, claiming that his friend had fallen and needed help. Hugh had dismounted and followed the man into the woods, where, so far as he could tell, he had been struck on the head. He’d awoken in the old cottage, where he had been kept ever since – he’d made one attempt to escape, when the two men were in a drunken stupor.

“In my awful half-blind clumsiness, I knocked over an ale bottle and they both woke up. I was in no state to fight them off. They bound me after that. Within a day or so I was too weak to try again.” Ross had seen the raw marks of a rope on his wrists.

“Do you know the men’s names?” Francis asked, his tone gentle, although Ross could sense the tension in his cousin. Not at Hugh, but at how close they were to nailing the men responsible for the appalling crime they had committed against this young man.

“Yes. They became careless eventually, especially when I pretended to be unconscious.” He wheezed, his breathing becoming harsh and Dwight brought a glass of water to his lips, rubbing his back firmly. After a moment, he gathered himself and continued. “The little one is Silas, the other Fred. No surnames, I’m afraid.”

“How often did Butler come?”

“Once or twice, perhaps more. I was sometimes truly unconscious, so I cannot be certain. But – “ he paused again, and Dwight leant forward, but Hugh shook his head. “But I did manage to learn who had employed him. He did not name him, but I knew.”

“Butler was not the mastermind?”

“No.”

“Then who?” Ross had had a suspicion of this for a while, and had even voiced it to the others the previous day at the Bank, to some agreement, but it still sent a cold chill through him when Hugh spoke it out loud:

“My uncle. Lord Falmouth.” 


	10. Chapter 9

“So, you are letting them collect the ransom undisturbed?” There was an unmistakable glimmer of triumph in the eyes of both Butler and Lord Falmouth at Falmouth’s question. Francis fought back his disgust at their callousness and greed. He was lying to them, of course, but if his experience with crooks of their type was anything to go by, their desperation to get away with their scheme would lead them to believe it.

“Yes, my Lord. You were quite right – such a plan could endanger your nephew further.” He glanced down at his clasped hands in an attitude of contrition. “As we have sadly been unable to identify those responsible, we can only hope that they are honourable enough to release Hugh when they received their ill-gotten gains.”

“If they are sensible they will.” Lord Falmouth. “And you must not blame yourself, Mr Poldark. These are clearly some very clever characters.”

Francis felt Ross stiffen beside him, and hope his cousin would not give them away. To hear Falmouth lord his own imagined cleverness over them was certainly infuriating, but they could not fail now, or they might be unable to conclusively pin the crimes on Falmouth and Butler.

After they took their leave, Ross and Ted Carkeek – already waiting outside in a concealed position – were to follow Butler, who they assumed would be collecting the ransom – while Francis, Henshaw and two others would await Falmouth. As the boat was schedule to leave Plymouth on Sunday, if Falmouth and Butler were to be on it, they would have to leave as soon as the ransom had been collected.

Of course, there was no ransom. Sir Francis Bassett had delivered his £15,000 to George and, so far as he knew, it was to be delivered as requested. In fact, George had stored it under heavy guard in the Warleggan Bank. What George was actually going to deliver – they had decided that he would make the drop, as it may seem less suspicious than a constable doing so – was a bag packed with carefully cut squares of paper, topped off with some artfully doctored notes – courtesy of the artistic hand of Morwenna Chynoweth – and a single layer of genuine notes. In the dark, it would be virtually impossible to tell that anything was amiss, and if by some chance Ross and Ted could not apprehend Butler, he would get away with relatively little.

After they took their leave of Garrow Hall, there were still several hours before the ransom was to be collected, but they could not take the chance of either Butler or Falmouth slipping away earlier than they anticipated. Ross therefore rode in the direction of Trenwith with Francis before doubling back through the woods to join Carkeek. Francis likewise took a discreet diversion to meet Henshaw. They were not directly watching the house, but in a place further along the road towards Truro – two constables had also been stationed in the other direction, just in case, but Falmouth would almost certainly have to pass this way in order to join the road to Plymouth. Country lanes and byways could be taken by foot or on horseback, but not by carriage.

As they had anticipated, they had a long wait, punctuated only by one of them occasionally, carefully rising to stretch their legs. At about a quarter past ten o’clock, there was a rustling in the trees behind them and both men instinctively reached for their pistols, until George emerged. It had been agreed that he would join them after delivering the ransom.

“It’s in place?” Francis murmured as George gathered up his coat so he could crouch next to Henshaw.

“Yes, concealed behind the mile marker as asked. I saw no sign of observation, but I made sure I could be clearly seen placing it.”

They did not have to wait long after that. Shortly after eleven, they heard the unmistakable rattle of carriage wheels and hoofbeats on the road – dry after several cloudless days.

“Wait.” Francis held out his hand. “We must make sure it’s Falmouth.”

Sure enough, as the carriage approached, Falmouth’s livery could be made out on the doors. Francis nodded and the three men stepped out into the road, followed shortly by the two constables who had been concealed on the other side. 

“Woah!” They had left plenty of distance for the carriage to stop, but Francis still felt a slight hesitation as the coachman dragged hard on the reigns and the wheels continued to turn. The horses clattered to a halt a few feet away from them. There was a thump as the passenger dropped the window and Lord Falmouth’s voice emerged.

“Perkins? Why have we stopped?” George strode around to the side of the carriage and pulled open the door. Francis came up behind him as Falmouth’s angry, bewildered face appeared at the door. “What is the meaning of this?”

“We could ask you the same question, my Lord.” George replied, coldly. “Pray tell us, where _are_ you going so heavily laden on the night your nephew is to be released by his kidnappers?”

“What business is that of yours, Warleggan?” Falmouth’s temper flared. He knew he had been caught, but typical aristocratic arrogance was not easily overcome.

“Criminal behaviour is always our business, my Lord.” Francis looked the man in the eyes, hating him more than ever.

“Crime?! What are you implying?!”

“I am implying nothing. I am stating that you are under arrest.” 

~

“He’s still raging about how he’ll ruin us all.” Henshaw appeared into the shadowed corridor of the prison. Before he closed the wooden door behind him, Lord Falmouth’s voice could indeed be made out echoing from the stone-walled cell he had been manhandled into by Henshaw and two others. George tutted, clearly unimpressed by the threat. Francis didn’t feel especially intimidated himself.

“Butler’s ready to be questioned.” Ross appeared from the other direction. He and Ted had walked the secretary into the prison about twenty minutes after they’d arrived with Falmouth. Both constables were covered in dust from where they’d had to tackle Butler to the ground – he’d incriminated himself by rummaging in the bag and, when realising that he’d been tricked, attempting to flee. He was still defiant, however, if not quite so much as his employer. He sat stiffly on a stool in the cell, watched over by Ted and another constable, Plowman.

“I object to the rough treatment by your men, Mr Poldark.” Butler sniffed.

“Do you indeed? Well, I object to your hired thugs’ mistreatment of Lt. Armitage.” Butler looked up at that, swallowing. “Oh yes, Mr Butler, we found them at the old Meringowan farm. You led us right to them, in fact.”

“I – I – “

“There is nothing you can say in your defence. The post master will identify you as the man who collected two sets of travel documents left in his care. Travel documents purchased by a letter in your handwriting, as proven by paperwork lodged by you at the Warleggan Bank on your employer’s behalf. Handwriting which matches the ransom demand.” There was a very long silence, Butler twisting his shackled hands together and biting his lips.

“Your accomplices will identify you, as will Lt. Armitage. You will be tried as the mastermind of this crime – a capital crime, I assume you know.” This was not entirely truthful on George’s part. He had neglected to mention that Falmouth had been arrested also, or that Hugh had named his uncle; but they wanted Butler to provide further testimony against his employer.

“It was Lord Falmouth’s idea! He approached me with it, said it was the only way to save us both from ruin, since the Armitage boy was useless.” Ross made a disgusted noise at the slight against Hugh, and Francis concurred. Falmouth’s only thought for his nephew was clearly how much use he could make of him.

“So the intent was always to defraud myself and Sir Francis?” George frowned.

“Lord Falmouth only wanted the money from you, since you’re the one who holds all his debts, but he knew you would never agree. Sir Francis would be a much easier touch, and if you refused after he paid it would not look well.”

“Were you to split the money between you? I can’t see Sir Francis agreeing to that.”

“So he said, but I knew he was lying. I was planning on slipping away with it when we got to New York.”

“No honour amongst thieves.” Ross muttered, and Francis couldn’t help a small smile, despite his anger at the whole depraved situation. Then, he remembered something.

“The thugs you hired seem to be under the impression that they were in line for a generous cut of the profits.”

“That’s what we told them, but I was never going to return to the farm.” Butler muttered this lowly, shifting on the stool.

“And what did you expect to happen to Lt. Armitage when the crooks finally realised that you had double-crossed them?” Butler did not answer, and Francis felt another wave of disgust. Both Lord Falmouth and his secretary had to know that those thugs would almost certainly have killed Hugh, or abandoned him to die at the very least. Such callousness was appalling.

Falmouth’s look of snobbish disdain gradually began to waver as they laid out the evidence against him, but eventually settled itself into smug satisfaction.

“So, I suppose you’re all delighted. You’ve bested me, or so you think.”

“So we _think_?”

“All of this evidence is circumstantial at best – Butler would say anything to save his miserable life.”

“Your nephew named you also.” They had kept this back – not mentioning either that Hugh had been found alive, if not well. Falmouth’s face instantly fell. “The same nephew Butler testified that you were well prepared to let die.”

“Well, he was worth more to me dead!” Falmouth suddenly raged, rattling the shackles he had been wrestled into. “Our great family, beholden to country squires and jumped up tradesmen, and our legacy ruined by his pathetic weakness!”

“Your nephew is not weak, Falmouth.” Ross replied. “ _You_ are weak.”

“And you will pay for that weakness.” George continued. “You may think that your name and your _breeding_ will protect you from the consequences of this, but they will not. I intend to make sure of that.”

Francis watched Falmouth’s face pale, pinched lips beginning to tremble, the first hint of fear in his eyes. _Good_. 


	11. Epilogue

“Has there been any news as to the outcome of the trial?” Dr Enys caught her in the corridor as she returned from the kitchens with some more water for Hugh. Morwenna sighed – not at the doctor, but at the answer she had to give.

“Butler and his two thugs pleaded guilty. I believe they hoped it would save them from the noose, but they will hang.” The doctor made an expression of grim satisfaction, which she quite understood. No one’s death could give her any pleasure, but she felt no pity for these dreadful men.

“Lord Falmouth tried to fight the charges, did he not?”

“Yes.” His arrogance had persisted even in the face of such overwhelming evidence. It had done him no good, however, despite his position. Morwenna had attended the hearing, as much as it was not quite considered the proper thing for young women, and watching his face fall at the verdict had not been quite as satisfying as she would have hoped; because she knew that the true price for his actions would be paid by Hugh. “But he is to pay a fine.”

“A fine?!” The doctor hissed, glancing back at the bedroom he had just left. “Is that it?!”

“It is amazing what peers of the realm can get away with. Except…”

“Except?”

“Except the fine is £5,000, and George and Sir Francis have both called in every penny of the debts Falmouth owes them.” It took a moment for the doctor to grasp the implications of her words, and he allowed himself a small smile.

“So he is destined for debtor’s prison.” It was perhaps not truly sufficient punishment, but it would be bad enough for a man like Falmouth. His reputation was ruined, and he had no one to help him pay off his debt, since his crime had been committed against his only relative.

“Indeed. It means Hugh’s inheritance has gone, but…” Morwenna glanced sadly at the doorway, and Dr Enys looked down. Now, it hardly mattered what Hugh would or would not inherit, as it had become entirely clear these past days that he would not live long enough.

He had been treated appallingly by the men holding him, starved and deprived of water, kept in the cold and damp. While it had been highly likely before his kidnapping that his condition would prove fatal, it was now a certainty, and it was only a matter of time. Much to Dr Enys’ obvious distress, all that he could do for his friend was keep him as comfortable as possible for however long it took. He was too ill to be moved from Killewarren, even if he had had any desire to return to Garrow Hall, which he did not.

The house belonged to the Warleggan Bank now, and Elizabeth – Morwenna being loathe to leave Hugh – had attended the clearing of the house to make sure that Hugh’s things were kept aside. Morwenna had brought several of his books to him, and read to him when he was not too tired.

He was awake as she entered the room now, managing a weak smile at her. It hurt her, to see how gaunt his handsome face had become, how glassy his warm eyes. Although the first signs of his illness had already begun to appear when they met, he had seemed so vital, so full of life.

“Ah, there you are.” His voice was reduced to a near whisper now.

“Did you think yourself finally rid of me?” She smiled, and he made a soft wheeze she knew was the closest he could come to laughter.

“I should never want that.” She poured him a glass of water and he took a few sips – he could no longer manage even to hold the glass himself. Setting it aside, she picked up the book she had been reading to him.

“Now, let us see what Mrs Radcliffe has in store for us.” Just as Morwenna was about to open the book, Hugh laid his hand over hers on the cover. Even that made his breathing deepen. Morwenna covered it with her own, feeling the fine bones just beneath the skin.

“Morwenna….”

“Please don’t speak if it is difficult for you.”

“No. No, I must…”

“Very well.” With great effort, Hugh turned his head towards her, frowning as he struggled to focus.

“We – we would have been h –happy together, wouldn’t w-we?” She knew what he meant. Something she had never shared with the others was that Hugh had already proposed marriage to her – even when he had known he was likely dying. As his widow, she would have received his naval pension, and it would have afforded her a certain status. She enjoyed much greater freedom than many young women her age, living with George and Elizabeth, but to be a married woman, albeit a widow would have allowed her even more. Morwenna had asked if she could think about it, and he had gone missing a week later. Part of her wished that she had said yes – perhaps he would not have gone to Killewarren that day if they had been preparing for an engagement, and then perhaps his uncle could not have carried out his cruel plan, and perhaps….Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.

“Yes, we would. So very happy.” She felt tears prick at her eyes, and blinked them away. It would do him no good to be surrounded by weeping and lamentation. That was no way to spend his final days.

“I – I have never told you prop-properly but,” he paused, taking a horribly shaky breath, “but I – I love you, Morwenna.”

“Oh, Hugh.” She could not hold back the tears now, and she felt them run down her cheeks. “I love you.”

Within two or three days, Hugh was barely awake at all, his breathing becoming slower and shallower every hour it seemed to her. Dr Enys promised that he almost certainly felt no pain, but it was difficult to believe when she heard the crackle of his breaths, watched the stuttering rise and fall of his chest and the flickering of his eyelids. In his rare moments of lucidity, his now sightless eyes could barely open, his words coming only in ones or twos.

He had a few visitors – George and Elizabeth, Francis Poldark, Sir Francis Bassett – none stayed long, either out of awkwardness, or a desire to leave her alone with him. Dr Enys came in regularly, of course, his wife slightly less so. Caroline had been very kind, insisting that Morwenna stay at the house so she did not have to travel from Cardew every day, and making sure that she was brought food and tea regularly. Her seeming reluctance to enter Hugh’s room had been explained by the doctor quietly confiding that Caroline had nursed her guardian, her Uncle, through a long final illness. Morwenna could understand why she would not wish to be reminded of that more than necessary.

Just over eight days after Hugh had declared himself to her, she sat with him – Dr Enys in a chair by the door, head bowed – as he drew his final breaths. The last thing that she heard him say, a few hours earlier, was “’Enna.” 

~

“My dear?” Morwenna started slightly as the parlour door opened. They were back at Cardew – it was closer to Garrow Hall, where Hugh had been buried. Although the land belonged to the bank now, the cemetery attached to the little chapel was still the resting place of Hugh’s family, including his parents. He’d been interred beside them. They’d held the wake here, the Hall being closed up, what little furniture that had not been seized and sold to pay off the debts swathed in dust sheets. George’s Uncle Cary had crossly – although somewhat tactfully by his standards – retreated upstairs for the duration of the gathering.

The mourners had all left by now, she assumed. She had slipped out a while ago, finding the polite, hushed chatter oppressive. How much time had passed while she sat here on the window-seat, staring out at the gardens, she had no idea. It was a beautiful day – it seemed wrong for a funeral, somehow, but she knew that Hugh would have liked it.

Elizabeth closed the door and crossed the room to join her. She had baby Nicholas with her, and he babbled happily at Morwenna as her cousin sat. His nurse had dressed him in black for day, but of course he was his happy, laughing self, no idea of the occasion. Hugh would have liked that, as well. He hadn’t met the children much, but he’d been very kind to them, giving the little ones sweets and talking very seriously with Valentine about ships and horses and dogs.

“Good day, Nicholas.” Morwenna rubbed his soft little cheek, letting him grasp the lace trim on the cuff of her mourning dress.

“How are you, my dear? As if that is not a foolish question.” She looked up at Elizabeth, who regarded her softly, concern in her eyes, looking pale and lovely in her black dress.

“I – I do not know.”

“That is quite natural, I think.” Elizabeth stroked Nicholas’ hair gently, and they sat in companionable quiet for a while, the only sounds the baby’s nonsense chatter and muffled birdsong from the gardens.

“Elizabeth – “ She paused, wanting to speak, but unsure exactly what to say.

“Yes, my dear?”

“Before he died, Hugh told me that he loved me, and I said that I loved him, too, but – “

“But?” Elizabeth frowned slightly. “You did not?”

“No. Yes. I mean.” She shook her head, looking down to toy with the tassel of a cushion. “I mean. I did love him – I _do_ – but I don’t know if I loved him the way I should have.”

“The way you should have?”

“As a wife should love her husband. As you love George. And now – now, I will never find out. Is it selfish of me to be thinking this way?”

“Not at all!” Elizabeth placed her hand over Morwenna’s and Morwenna turned hers to hold it. Elizabeth squeezed gently. “You cared for Hugh very much, and he knew that in his last hours. That is all that matters. We can never know what might have happened had he lived, but you will always have this time that you spent together.”

“Yes,” Morwenna murmured, half to herself. “Yes, we will.”

A week or so later, she sat in her room sorting through a box full of Hugh’s books. The day after the funeral, a gentleman who announced himself as Hugh’s attorney had called. It seemed that, just after his liberation, when he was the strongest he was going to be, Hugh had made a will, witnessed by Dr Enys, leaving all of his belongings and what money he had to Morwenna. After the servants had carried the few boxes into her room, she had sat and wept over them. Over all that was left of such a kind, gentle, wonderful man, cruelly cut out of life in what should have been his finest years. By the evil of men – by war and by greed and callousness. By the neglect of the very man who should have had nothing but his best interests at heart.

She had given away his clothes to the alms house, although kept his naval uniform wrapped carefully in paper in a box at the bottom of her armoire. His letters had been neatly kept in small boxes. All of hers he had preserved, tied up with blue ribbon; she’d put them with his to her. He’d had few other correspondents, it seemed. There were several from Dr Enys, which she had wrapped up and returned to him. Some from a distant cousin Hugh had mentioned, who lived in Ireland. Unfortunately, Morwenna had quite forgotten about him after Hugh died, but had since written him a letter with the news.

His collection of foreign coins, she’d placed next to her jewellery box, along with a set of silver coat-buttons. She’d kept his seal, too, and his pocket-watch. It was his second best; he’d been buried with the one he had inherited from his father.

Other things were still in boxes, piled neatly by her writing-table. Now, she sorted through his books – some of them she had already seen, lent to her by him, or given to him by her. She smiled at some of the titles, remembering talking about them with him. Frowning, she lifted one out of the bottom of the box, wrapped in plain paper. It must have been delivered just before he went missing – although that was odd; his eyesight had already been getting worse by then, so he had been reading less.

Curious, she pulled at the string, unfolding the paper, turning the book to examine the spine. It was Mr Darwin’s poem _The Botanic Garden_. They had spoken of it, she recalled, he teasingly appalled that she had never read it. She opened the front cover, finding an inscription inside, in Hugh’s spidery, delicate hand. If she believed she had shed the last of her tears for him, it seemed that she was wrong. 

_My dear Morwenna_

_May you find here, what I have found in you: All the wonders of the world._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed :)

**Author's Note:**

> Les Trois Francais is probably my most popular fic. I'm so glad people seemed to enjoy it, and I hope you'll enjoy this sequel as well. Thank you for reading! :D


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